


Terpsichore; or rather The Comedy of the Danse Macabre

by Nico_Weetch



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ballet, Changeling Lore, Changelings, Character Death, Cheese, Cool motive still attempted murder, Dark Comedy, Espionage, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Musicals, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Parallel Planes, Redemption, Self-Indulgent, The Kids Are (not) Alright, Time Travel, War Torn, disaster knife dad mcgee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-05-24 00:51:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 158,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nico_Weetch/pseuds/Nico_Weetch
Summary: The maestro strikes the score and our players are set. What now O Ibex?  //Follow the changeling Waltolomew Stricklander (Walter Strickler for short) as he learns a few choice lessons. In which the subject of going against 'what is said to be fated', and 'what always is must be' can be put into question…then again, as Sir Terry Pratchett supposedly put it;“Most gods throw dice, but Fate plays chess, and you don’t find out til too late that he’s been playing with two queens all along.”Featuring:A Big Cast of Characters (that seems to keep growing)Ballet Tropes + MusicalsSelf IndulgenceEventual Canon DivergenceThe Janus OrderChangeling OCs (and other OCs )Changeling Lore (and folktales)A Bloody MessPretentiousnessRedemptionStricklake (and other amorous pairings)Weird Humor (sometimes dry, sometimes dark, hopefully fun!)References (both obscure and not)





	1. Overture / La Sylphide / Apparition de L’Oiseau de Feu

**Author's Note:**

> So this all came about from two things, mainly, 1) a need to vent about work, not to mention a daydream I had during some downtime. 2) a strike of writing inspiration I haven't had in a long time after reading niemals_etwas 's fic "Cultic Epithets of the God Janus (disputed)" if you like smart, fun, and heartfelt writing please give that a read (it left me thinking about it for days, and don't get me started on the literary aesthetics!), and with that brainstorming a little idea of my own came to be. 
> 
> (That being said this is an original over arching story with zero affiliation to the previously mentioned work. )
> 
> Now I haven't written something to this extent since I used to role-play on gaia, so please bare with me, and my horrible tense slip up habit (I'm trying to curb it I swear).  
> Hopefully my writing muscles aren't too numb, all the same it has been so much fun to write! 
> 
> Expect a lot of ballet heavy themes, for now.
> 
> EDIT AS OF 10/18/18 :  
> Seeing as what started as a venting project spiraled quickly into a Passion Project of sorts, I decided to update the summary to something a little more fitting.  
> Don't worry though, this is still; "A sort of backstage explorative dance of what our favorite avocado muppet could have been up to in the background and off screen, featuring: A LOT of ballet tropes and eventual cannon divergence"

 

ACT I

Overture

 

          The Private and Intimate Mulings of Waltolomew Stricklander

           Or rather; the maelstrom

Strickler was sure of the following things that happened during the fight that lead up to Bular’s demise

 

  * Strickler spent frantic hours maybe days trying to replicate that fake amulet, and _still_ he would have to kill Jim.
  * Strickler sent the threat message
  * Strickler went to get Jim (If it was to be anyone it’d be him)
  * If Jim gave signs of having a contingency plan the old tactician either didn’t notice, or didn’t want to 



 

_You can’t just stop…right?_

_Just stop being what you are and change. Would that admit those years of pain and sacrifice was for nothing_

_No, he had given up too much._

_Too much blood, too much dust, too many fallen – and for that to be thrown away, to be in vain???_

Inconceivable

 

He placed himself on this pedestal, placed this weight on himself because he had to become _the_ changing force for his sibling kind. And he was the changeling to do it. Hadn’t that been proven time and again over the _centuries_? Still he must fight to keep credit from their starving mouths.

The more he soliloquized this to himself the more it felt like a pill being forced against his will. 

Yet- the more the pedestal rose, the more he couldn’t bare to see anyone on it but him. _Out of his warm sun dried hands_ (as the saying goes).

_After all I’ve done, I’ll get what’s due to me, went his intoxicated thoughts_

 

  * Yes he attacked Jim with intent to kill. It’d be an honorable death, he would administer it – no one else – A gift from a war torn changeling to one so young, at the mouth of the Darklands.



 He could feel the battlefield still in his bones, the sluggishness of what felt like dragging corpses of his past deeds behind him through knee high mud. There’s no unchaining from this, and he wouldn’t wish it on one so young, just as much as he wouldn’t wish for Barbara to witness her son becoming something _else_. Especially with the brimstone Gunmar would bring, the destruction.

 

                  (Or maybe…the honorable death would be his own.)

 Strickler survived Jim, survived the collapse of the bridge, and Bular was gone, Gunmar still locked with his only threshold, broken

_What next? O Ibex, O Broken Horned King_

         Your roll must go on.

 

 

         Wednesday, A Week In To Being the New Principal 

Barbara had the day off and an idea to try someplace new, Walter welcomed the idea of a few hours of escapism. The cabin fever of taking on school bureaucracy, among other tasks, having seized him, and his patience.

 The principality of a school was a new trade, and old, in a sense, but if he managed being Doge of Venice for a time, and even impersonated the headmaster of Oxford for a week, how hard could it be? A nuisance yes, but he felt convinced in himself.

 Strickler noted his loss of patience when his eyes no longer wanted to focus, and his brain continuously switched to static. Like a maelstrom of chattering birds in his ears. It lead to the impression of feeling millions of running thoughts, while also being eerily numb to them.  

 Time, if only Strickler had more time to -

 A sensation of not quite being in either of his bodies draped over him. For how long had he been staring at the side of his desk, unmoving? The changeling held his breath, clapped four times, snapped both of his fingers, and exhaled.

 Yes some fresh air was do, and the thought of seeing Barbara again after his time away wasn’t so bad either. He could feel his brain trying to secret a rosy tint to his thoughts. How dare it? While the Inferna Copula glinted back a sickly yellow in the light.

 

 

La Sylphide

 

It was warm enough to feel like summer, in the sun at least. Those temperamental days when the difference between using a sweater or tying it around ones waist, was made by whether or not there was shade. He looked at Barbara, watching as she eyed the destination with anticipation and interest. Despite of himself, he smiled.

 “Ooo patio, _with_ an awning.” She placed her free hand on her hip and nodded, “Looks busy, so that’s a good sign.”

 “How awe inspiring.” Walter mused back. He watched as she sucked air through her teeth.

 “Oh Walt. You can do better.”

 “You’re right, I’ve gone pun deaf.”

 “Puntastic.” She conceded. They shared a deadpan gaze, starring. A mini competition ensued: to see who would break first. Half a second past when something seized Barbara's throat, while a nasally high-pitched exhale unsteadily shimmied from Walter, turning into a cough. Barbara squeezed his hand in tandem with his coughs as if that would coax him to make the first laugh, or to help subdue her own fast approaching laugh still trapped in her throat.

Neither of them won, and their snickering followed them inside.

 

It was a pleasant establishment to say the least. The Red Fern Café Gelato and Coffee Bar, a year old and still trying to get its bearings in the war that is the competitive food industry. This could be seen even in their menu. Sandwiches, burgers, while also offering poke bowls soba noodle bowls, quinoa sliders barbeque brisket sliders AND flatbreads AAAAND gelato?

The two of them huddled together by the menu stand, having been informed they’ll be seated after they order at either of the two registers. Which was sometimes manned by one employee in uniform, while the other, (the owner, Walter guessed) would disappear into the kitchen to help with a sizable pickup order.

While Barbara contemplated between a Jerk Chicken Burger and a Turkey and Brie Sandwich, Walter noticed there being only two food runners who also had to quickly buss the tables clean when guests would leave, and be designated the task to set the tables as well. There didn’t seem to be a designated coffee barista either, it was a job everyone, including the owner, had to pitch in with.

Did someone call sick, or was the place just understaffed?*

Being a creature who prides himself at studying his surroundings for any tactical advantage, Walter also observed that if someone stood in front of the gelato counter long enough one of the two food runners would appear as if summoned by magic lamp. Full of smiles, and trying to hide the eagerness to help the customers along so they can quickly go back to helping their fellow employees.

“Turkey and Brie.” Barbara decided aloud.

“Does sound lovely…” their heads almost touching when either of them would read what the other was pointing to, “I’m leaning more towards this farro bowl myself…what do you think of these tostadas to share?”

“I’d be honored.” 

 

There was a modest line, but nothing overly long. The inside of the café was just as packed as the outside patio. The line of course, coincided with the gelato counter.

“So! Who is thinking gelato?” said the summoned worker. Hair hidden under a hat wearing a red-checkered button down, and denim apron. She scanned her eyes over Barbara, Walter, and two other customers who recently joined them in line.

Barbara's head looked up from the display, she had been eyeing the peanut butter cup flavor casually while waiting. “Oh maybe after lunch… what is ube?” curiosity getting the best of her.

The worker seized the chance to sell by the throat. “Ube, the purple yam from the Philippians,” began the explanation with acute delivery to not only Barbara, but the others by the counter as well. The worker gloved her hand and picked up two sample spoons, “as Dr Seuss-y as it looks the yam is naturally purple on the outside, so there’s no artificial coloring involved.” She gestured. “Sample?”

Barbara bit her lip considering the idea. Walter watched her weigh the mental scales of possibilities, and cited, “It has been a while since I’ve tasted good ube myself.” It would also be a bit before it is their turn to order food, “Never in gelato form.” He admitted.

The worker scooped up a sample and handed it to him. “Bam.” She said, and already started scooping another ube sample for Barbra, another “Bam.” punctuation.

Barbara and Walter both shared a look of contentment at their sample, and silently agreed on dessert.

“What’s this one?” said another customer; placing their finger on the glass display the worker will later have to clean up.

“Ssc-Str..” their friend fumbled.

“Runner!” called someone from the kitchen.

Walter noticed the worker’s eyes darting to the side for a moment, and returning to the potential customers with a farther stretching smile.

“Stracciatella.” She said quickly, and correctly from what Walter could tell.

“Hu?”

Without missing a beat she repeated herself, this time the pronunciation more colloquialized for the continent, though not unkindly, “Strah-chua-tell-ah….or chocolate chip.” Her smile was widening, as if the wider she smiled the more she could mask the eagerness to move these customers along.

After the customer in question had the sample of the stracciatella their friend tried the chocolate lava. With no one ordering any of it to take for a meal or dessert, the worker said, “Excellent. Well you know where to find us when you’re done.” With a wink pivoted away to the kitchen.

 

The meal happened delectably. The two happy to be given outdoor seating. Sun shining, the wind rustling the trees like an old friend, the distorted breathing of an inbred lap dog a table over.  

The conversation tittered back and forth with ER stories, and Walter’s impromptu trip to Colombia. Strickler had kept up his contact with Barbara during his travels, (under the guise of a stressful need for a vacation, and sightseeing with a friend ), despite the risk of her telling Jim about it, and with that, the risk of being stopped.

Maybe he did it for the same reason he sent Fragwa to fetch NotEnrique that fateful night, despite having deducted in advance the odds of the young changeling becoming a turncoat.

Maybe, just maybe…he wanted to be stopped. He can’t stop his plans, not after so many years of dreaming for this kind of chance to further changelings, to rule. Yes, he was quite the anthropologist, but his study was meant to be cold, tactical, with purpose, not… but if he was _stopped_ … he could feel the maelstrom slowly forming in the back of his mind.  

“Walt? Walter?” he felt a hand on his wrist, Barbara's voice coming into focus, “You were saying?”

“Hm?” he looked around, “Sorry, where was I?”

“While on a train to Zipa..zipp..“ cheeks flushing through her pronunciation attempt.

“Yes!” Walter dived in quickly, recovering “While traveling through Bogotá someone was mentioning the Caño Cristales River, or the Liquid Rainbow, it has many names actually. Veeery tricky to get to, but worth the plane ride and trek. Well trek might be an understatement.” He rambled, “The Señor said it is more beautiful than the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquirá.”

“Zipaquirá!” snapping her fingers, “needed to hear it again.” Walter found himself smiling again.

“The Salt Cathedral was awe inspiring all the same, don’t get me wrong. Lots of interesting findings.” He added.

“Did you end up seeing the Caño Cristales River afterwards?”

“Unfortunately no. There were only so many days available.”  And tentative ones they were.

“But imagine how picturesque. Ah well, maybe someday.” Barbara bit into her sandwich.

“Someday..?” Walter, unable to stop himself, leaned forward.

She cleared her throat, “You’ll get a chance to see it.”

How silly of him. Walter chortled an “Of course!” and ate a bit more as well. Shifting in his seat while chewing.

“How could you stand the heat? Sometimes I can barely handle how hot it gets here! 85 degrees? No thank you.” She continued swiping through the pictures Walter had sent her on her phone.

“You’re just too warm hearted for your own good, Dr. Lake.” He affirmed.

“Oh Walt,” looking up from considering two very similar photos; one with and one sans thumb, “we both know I only went in to medical school for the AC. Lets be real.” she grinned.

“You’re _absolutely_ right! How could I _possibly_ forget.” He forked his farro with a smirk, “Niccolò would be so proud. Oath be damned.” 

“You crossed a line there, Walter.” Barbara cautioned with a dimple.

“A red-“

“Don’t even think about it, mister.”

“Nooo” he drawled, a concerned look overtaking him, “..its Walter, good gracious!” realization striking, “have you lost your memory?” he responded seriously, and slowly.

“For Pete’s sake.” She gasped, echoed by a gasp from Walter as well.

“ _Walter_ , Barbara, please!” came his overwrought pleas. 

Barbra feigned unamusement, “And I had such high hopes too…guess we can’t be friends anymore.”

Breaking his act Walter raised his mug, “Alright, alright. To enemies then. A thousand times more interesting.” Barbara's smile escaped her as she raised her own drink in tandem. 

Their conversation tittered on, now moving to the dangers of botulinum toxin. A fascinating concept to one initially made of stone.

 

Barbara stretched in her seat and leaned back in her chair contentedly. Her plate nearly finished. Walter relished in his decaf Americano and in the thought that Jim would, or should, be in school, (minimalizing the risk of being seen by him), and Angor Rot in the shadows.

“Mmmuh..” Walter placed his cup down.

“What’s up?”

“More bitter than I’d imagined.” He said reaching for the creamer, only to realize it was empty. Ah the fate’s resigned.

Barbara turned in her seat to see if any of the runners were making water rounds. Walter smiled at her impulse, her constant vein of kind generosity, as admirable as it was enviable. How does she do it?

Waving his hand Walter said, “Its wholly alright. They’ll come when they come. I’m in no rush.” A pause, “Thank you though.”

“Well you can never knock back the importance of coffee the way you like it. It can…really make the day…” Barbara's smile slowly ghosted away despite her best attempts to keep it. He hesitated, would she fight it? Or confide in him again? But Walter could watch her struggle with her emotions for only so long.

“Jim?”  Walter offered. The way her face struggled to twist against her want to remain calm said it all. She sighed and leaned against their table.

“We haven’t talked since the hospital incident. And when we try, it just morphs and mutates to lying and anger, and the more I catch his lying the angrier I get…and the angrier I get, he gets…its-it’s not anger, defensive is the better word…but God does it burn, and it just…its turned into this cycle!”

“A vicious cycle.” He consoled, guilt riding up his back, bitterer than the coffee. The least he could do was listen.

“Honestly I feel like I can barely recognize him! And…a-and I hate it.” She blinked back her eyes and cleared her slowly reddening throat.  “Hate it Walt and...I just want..” Barbara took another moment, and swallowed a lump in her throat. Taken aback by how quick the raw emotion came to hit her. A sort of self-consciousness setting in. As if the clinking of other people’s silverware was suddenly louder than before. 

Barbara took a breath, and what appeared to be her about to continue her trajectory of thought, turned into her tapping a passing worker’s arm. It was the same from the gelato stand earlier.

“Excuse me,” started Barbara.

“Oh Barbra, no. That’s not nec-”

“ ..could I please have some more creamer?”

The worker casted her gaze on the two of them, and what probably was a milla second, felt longer. Perhaps it was the way the worker carried herself, with intruding thoughtful eyes. Did her gaze just linger on him? Or was Walter feeling paranoid? Paranoid over this pale worker?? In any case, all he could do was sit in his mire, and hope the worker couldn’t smell it. For a moment, it looked like she did. Tricky thing, guilt.

 A calm, “Of course.” and she went as silently as she arrived.

Barbara busied herself with trying to clean her glasses. As if redirecting her energy would make talking easier. It worked, for a while, “I just want Jim to be honest with me. He’s never acted like this before. And with the bruises and late nights, and the letter!” She started pulling the contents out of her purse looking for her lens cloth cleaner. “A letter Walt!! Sometimes I wish…I wish I had read it. A mother should know what is going on, right? How can I help when I don’t know where..” she cleared her throat, “Where…where is…”

Just as her eyes started to blink back again, Walter pulled a cloth cleaner from his inner jacket pocket, and handed it to her. When did he start carrying those with him?

Barbara nodded a thanks and tenderly cleaned her glasses, slowing, “..where is this all coming from?”

With great care, Walter chose his next words, “You describe a very difficult situation, yes.” Her head was lowering, and Walter inclined forward “but not one you’re alone in. Now, I’m no mother myself, though in some past life I’m unaware of there is a chance I was a seahorse,” Barbara's mouth curved some, placing her glasses back on her face, “but thousands of mothers and caretakers before and after you, have and will go through what you’re going through. You’re not alone in this.” His eyes searched her, hoping she understood him. She handed back the cloth cleaner.

Their hands met in the middle.

A pause, then quietly he continued, “A thing I’ve humbly noticed when it comes to teenagers, Barbara is that…no matter how much you wish you can tell them, warn them, teach them, help them,” he held her gaze, “or carry their burdens for them. There are some things they just have to learn and figure out themselves. Which in term means, well, realizing the fact that they’ll learn when they _want_ to learn, listen when they want to listen, talk when they want to talk. It isn’t something anyone can force, just as much as you can’t force a horse to drink, as the phrase goes. What is important is for the horse to know the pool is there, when the horse is ready. Sometimes the hardest thing to do, is to let go…and…trust.” He realized aloud.

At some point the creamer must have materialized by Barbara's elbow, and Walter felt the mire bubble.

_Two steps forwards, five steps back, hu? Strickler._

Barbara sighed, and bowed her head, lifted it, and adjusted her glasses, “I trust my son…” she asserted, “but that doesn’t make it any easier..”

“It never is.” he comforted, “you’ll get through this yet.” Barbara braved a smile, their hands tightening around the lens cloth. 

 

Later the two of them (Barbara with peanut butter cup and ube gelato, and Walter hazelnut and ube gelato.) walked to the good doctor’s car. They lingered by the passenger door on the curb. 

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” she offered again as Walter placed both of their empty gelato cups in the trash.

“Touched as I am, I wouldn’t mind the walk back. Sunny day that it is.”

Gracefully they thanked one another for the company and hoped to meet sooner than later.  

“Now go on, save lives. Be _decent_ , I guess.” He toyed smiling. “Enjoy the AC.”

“And you go on and…and plan a field trip!” Nailed it Barb. Walter found himself guffawing at the delivery of her comeback.

Barbara's face blanched in the worry of a joke taken the wrong way. She jittered her hands on the roof of her car, cheeks betraying a red tint.

“How about a drive up to a nice view I know of? I now have the authority to ignore badly made permission slip forgeries, you know.” The words rolled out of his mouth just as his brain must have out of his head.

“With hands like these? We’ll see.” She beamed, her phone beeped, “Ah shoot, alright bye for real this time!” she ducked into her car, and quickly popped back up, “I’ll let you know.”

Watching her drive away in the sun, waving, smiling. Lowering his hand when the car was gone, Strickler happened to notice the gelato worker from earlier crossing the street. Hat; off white hair (bleached blonde?) bouncing under the shade of her umbrella.

 

 

Apparition de L’Oiseau de Feu

        

          Same Day, School Night

 Strickler and Angor Rot were both in his inner office. Rot leaning against the wall, his glowing eyes causing a chiaroscuro effect against his face. The sound of his knife carving into stone different symbols echoed forebodingly, softly, like a cursed whisper.   

Strickler, listened while Rot spoke, fighting off the maelstrom that gushed in the back of his mind. There were six consistent locations Jim would go to, home, school, the canals, the dwelling of Toby, and the dwelling of Claire. Not entirely re-inventing the wheel here.

“There might be a seventh.” Strickler thought aloud, a glance in Rot’s direction, “The human dance ritual known as ‘Spring Fling’ is coming up…There is a possibility Jim might have plans for such an occasion. In his planning there may be higher chances he is alone.”

“You suggest I study the boy for longer?”

“I have given your golem tactic from the other day some thought. Your point taken, I see no need to rush.” Spoken with the hidden anxiety to make things perfect, thus comes the stalling of the perfectionist.

Angor Rot listened like a cat, which thought strong opinions, and kept said thoughts to his chest. Moments like these twanged a sense of unease to the changeling. Angor Rot is harder to manipulate than Bular (who was more brawn than cunning). _What is there to manipulate though? Rot is doing the task you wanted isn’t he?_ came the thoughts from the maelstrom.

“To quote Hans Lodeizen, ‘Springtime makes doors,’” he continued with an ill-boding smile. 

The cold silence that fell was broken by Rot’s growled, “..very well.” Pushing off from the wall readying to leave the inner office. Strickler followed him.

“One more thing,” added Strickler, before opening the hidden wall, “I can’t control Jim, but I can control the fact he doesn’t want his mother hurt…seeing as this – Trollhunter’s death will take time, I wouldn’t mind some, preventative, measures being made. I read there might be a-“

“You wish to entwine yourself with the Trollhunter’s Maker?” the question sounded more like a statement, really.

“Physically, not emotionally.” Strickler clarified, “Think of it as not only an added precaution, but a torment as well. Distress does lead to mistakes.”

Angor Rot turned his head slowly, giving nothing away of his own thoughts. For some reason this made the changeling clarify his reasoning further, “I’ll admit the human is an interesting anthropological study in the Case of These Creatures that Exist on the Surface,” his fascination to humanity wasn’t unheard of after all, “but she is no more than a chess piece on a board.”

_Which piece O Horned Tactician? Which piece?_

“…it’ll take time..”

“Sacrifices must be made.” With a click the inner office wall began to shift, the gears of its mechanisms inside tinkling, “Argal! To have it by Friday latest, would be most preferable.”

Angor Rot stalked quietly away, with not an acknowledging sound or nod to be found. How annoying. 

 

With his assassin gone, Strickler slumped into his chair with a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. This is for the best, he reconciled with himself, and now there is added time. Looking down at the Inferna Copula the changeling’s thoughts wandered to Colombia. The sights the smells, the Andes, the cavernous splendor of the Salt Cathedral, the hot nights, music, texting…

With the rise of conflicting thoughts and feelings abound, the maelstrom began to grow. He had almost succumbed to its depths when Strickler began to…smell something. It wasn’t gas, or any kind of leak. 

Looking up and around his office, an impulse arose. Reentering into his inner office he glanced into the screen where footage of the school was being recorded. He frowned at what he saw. A figure wandering the halls. The hour was late enough to be sure that, in theory, he ought to be the only one in the building.

Evidentially, that wasn’t the case. 

The figure was heading towards the teacher’s lounge. Perhaps a student trying to steal back some collected contraband? He squinted closer to the screen, but no avail. No student he could recognize. He grumbled out of the inner office once again, checked the school clock and thought through how credible it would be if a principal was still in his school at 11:45pm.

Eh, he’ll make it work. Perhaps use his newly appointed office as an excuse for the long hours.

 

Strickler did his best not to let his footfalls carry and echo. Rounding the corner he could see the light in the lounge was on, casting a pale tawny stream out the door and onto the floor. The air smelled of jasmine, and…something indescribable. Which thoroughly irked the changeling.

A hum of some unrecognizable tune. He inched closer and peaked the corner. What he saw was no high-schooler, and no troll. He stood upright and made himself known by knocking on the threshold.

“Come in!” came the sing-song voice obstructed by a lit kiseru. The smoke that billowed from the pipe rose and danced with her pale visage. White hair bouncing into curls over her shoulder. It was the worker from the café. Still rummaging through the lounge unperturbed by Strickler’s presence.

“Madam, I can think of _several_ inappropriate things happening here. One, the school isn’t open to visitation afterhours, nor is the teacher’s lounge. Two I _highly_ doubt you’re a member of a kabukimono -- wasn’t that on display in the museum?”

The thief turned, relinquishing the stolen kiseru from her mouth and revealing a devilish grin. Smoke jetting from between her teeth with an exhale. Her movements equally as diaphanous.  Dressed in all black, save for a string of pearls round her turtle-neck. Her black eyes frightfully piercing. Her frame; Audrey Hepburn-esque, which made Strickler wonder if the thief had also suffered near death malnourishment as a child** . Yet in her lean frame was also muscle. Her movements effortlessly other worldly…yet human? She didn’t seem to walk, she glided.

Ah- no, she was dancing – rather doing a bourrée towards him. Lets add that to the list of inappropriate things, shall we?

“If it was, it is now on display in this room.” She took a drag, and rested her heals back to the earth. “How can I help you?”

The clock struck 12.

“I _beg_ your pardon??”

The thief made a pantomime of ‘well okay’. Bowed and did a brisé out the door. Smoke from the kiseru trailing behind her. Strickler almost had whiplash trying to turn and follow.

“Now see here!” he responded, her cackles echoing down the hallway.

He chased her as long as he could, but barely managed to keep up with the way the thief dashed about. How could she be human if she moved in such a way that made it seem as if the air helped her rise higher rather than stay earth bound. Just when she was about to be cornered the ghostly woman would quick turn and tour jeté through him like a charge. Ducking, Strickler had a sneaky suspicion that had the leg connected to his face, he might have lost a tooth. For good measure he rubbed his chin as if to make sure it was still there.

Like a fox toying with the hound that’s chasing it. They Scooby-Doo-ed through classrooms and hallways, there was no sense to her pattern.

Strickler was loosing his patience and could feel his eyes burning with the want to glow. She was twirling around another corner again. An angered growl started to grow it Strickler.

“EnOUGH…would you…just…stop… _please_.”  Like magic she stopped, balancing on one foot, her other leg in attitude. While Strickler caught his breath, the thief lowered her leg and heals, returning to the earth again.

They were in the music room. Chairs stacked and placed to the side. Piano closed. Xylophone covered. The lights from the outside school parking lot oozed in through the windows cool hues.

“Just…who are, you?” he asked. The kiseru swirled in her mouth, contemplating. Pulling her hair up was her response.

“Yes I know where you work, you’re the gelato girl.”

“ _Madam_.” She corrected with a grin. “For as much as you know, you could just call me Old Madge, Principal Stricklander.”

He knitted his brows, and for one icy moment the changeling hazarded to think that perhaps this eccentric pale woman was THE Pale Lady.  

She watched him stammer, process, and attempt rationalizing this possibility long enough before showing a piece of paper from the teacher’s lounge mentioning him as the principal. Her cheeks dimpled at his facial reaction of contempt. The thief, however, was visibly amused.

Despite the anger of mentally besmirching the Pale Lady with his previous thought, Strickler tried to venture the idea that, perhaps they had met before? There was something in the way she looked at him that almost had traces of…familiarity? More so than bringing food and drink to a table.

“Do…I know you?”

“Is your name Virgil?”

“uuh”

“ _Virgilio_?” she repeated.

“Well, no.” he said frankly, almost insulted.

“Then I’m afraid not, dearie.” She consoled.

This was beyond annoying now. “Just what are you doing here? At this hour! In a school no less, I doubt you have any usual affiliations to a school. Explain yourself, and no ‘new teacher’ spiel! ” as if _that_ would work on him.

“Would you believ-“

“ _No_.” he cut her off, spotting her testing tone a mile away.

She gave a kindhearted giggle, “Fair enough. I wasn’t picking golden apples from your garden, but I am searching for something. Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself.” The thief extended a hand forward to shake, “You can call me Giselle De Cecco.”

A pause, before extending his hand as well, “Are…are you using a _pasta brand_ for your last name?” is this spy amateur hour???

“I’m from a future where that pasta brand doesn’t exist.” She deadpanned. A pause, silence, “I know it is hard to believe. It’s a good brand too.”

“Ye-ess” he drawled, calculating, staring, studying.

What followed happened rather quickly. Strickler still holding her hand, pulled the thief in with a turn and placed the arm and hand in question behind her back in an arm lock. Painfully so.

“It has always been Principal Strickler, _never_ Stricklander.” Said the changeling accusingly. 

“Is that – ah – so? O Pwyll?” the unmistakable toad like cry of a raven came from outside. Causing the thief to jerk her head up, trying to locate the direction of the cry.

Quickly now she swirled the kiseru in her mouth, and while taking a drag she leaned in with the weight Strickler was already putting on her arm with her elbow, catching the changeling by surprise. With him off balance and her arm closer to her own body, the thief pivoted leading with her shoulder and smashing the open palm of her other hand into his chest. Jets of smoke exhaling through her grinning teeth into his face.

“And here I thought ballerinas enjoyed a good pas de deux.” His eyes glowed in the smoke while trying to suppress a cough. She had pushed him, yes, but not too far. Strength in the legs, he thought.

“Ooo look at you! Tap dancing with your words-ssssak!!!” Strickler was able to connect a punch in the face with perfect 1700s Irish street fighting form.  Palm of the fist to her cheek, scratching the face with the recoil, his left arm extended and guarding, torso leaning back.

“Madam –cough- I don’t tap dance, I waltz.”

The Kiseru was on the floor now. The thief staggered, hand pulling away from her face revealing a bit of blood. Well she can bleed, thought Strickler. Readying himself as the thief tried to close the distance between the two of them, this time swinging her legs about. The changeling caught a side swipe of her leg, grinned, and quickly re-thought why the catch was so easy. Oops.

The reason came quickly as the thief jumped up with her standing leg to kick into his middle. Relinquishing her leg from his catch, and landing silently as Strickler flopped backwards with a wheeze.

The changeling wasn’t out of the ring just yet! Using the momentum of falling backwards, Strickler tucked and rolled back to his feet. Staggering some when vertical again, not to mention close enough to the chairs by the wall. He took one with the intention of ramming it against the thief.

The thief bent down to pick up the antique pipe, and made a gesture to throw it. Strickler, chair in hand, raised it to protect his face. There was no hit, no sound, no contact. It was a feint!

Strickler raised his head in time to spot the thief quite literally sashay away while humming Prokofiev’s Op 87 Waltz Coda. In frustration he swung the chair sideways hoping it’d hit her on some tail end. Alas no connection.

The chase was on again. Though instead of needlessly running about, the old tactician paused. Too quick, soft footed, though with that smell…smell!

A quick change to troll form, honing in on the smell of jasmine and…other…The school’s layout cemented to his mind. They were too far away from the gymnasium. Close enough to the theater, but too close for the thief to try something. And just as a fox may try to run for water to hide their scent, the changeling ran towards the cafeteria, where numerous of other smells could be found.

Taking his human form again before opening the cafeteria doors, Strickler eyed about. Picking up a tray to potentially wield. The room was dark, tables folded in half and rolled to the side. Giving the once over, and wanting to make sure the thief wasn’t hiding behind any tables, Strickler noticed the door to the kitchen was swinging.

What he found inside was only a lonely kiseru burning the last of its content, a thin bead of smoke waved to Strickler. He growled and picked it up.

 Something dawned on him then. The rummaging in the teacher’s lounge, the informality, knowing what other changelings and troll kind called him.

 

“So at what point are you at? With your Rhiannon? I’m not entirely sure myself…” The thief was sitting on Strickler’s desk leafing through his copy of Kate Beaton’s comic collection ‘Hark! A Vargant’, “Your Barb-“

He cut off her clarification, seething “Who sent you?”

“These are kind of funny…” she said softly, looking up she closed the yellow book and placed it next to a series of other books she had spread about his office. His office, by the way, thoroughly trashed and looked through. “…another time perhaps. Though you should give it while you can, you mi-“ a raven’s cry was heard, she cut herself off this time. The thief’s face becoming quite serious, she slid off the desk, placed the knocked over lamp upright and made for the office window.

With a THWACK the kiseru barely missed the thief’s face, hitting the wall behind her between two adorned decorative masks. It was thrown with such a force it stuck to the wall, vibrating giving off a slight door stopper sound.

She gazed at the wall, “ ‘Springtime makes doors, the wind is an open hand, we must yet begin to love.’ ”then at Strickler, “Ciao.” And left through the window.

He was beside himself with rage, and humiliation. Though he did his best to hide his humiliation, the evidence was all over the room. Angor Rot stepped into the office.

“Find her. Bring her to me. Maim her if you must. Go for the legs.” Was his cold command. His ringed hand clenched in a fist.

Angor Rot didn’t say anything, Strickler clenched his fist tighter, the Inferna Copula glowed. The troll groaned.

“At—at once.” His assassin groaned. Finally. Rot stepped through the window, and followed after the pale thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *(( it was understaffed ))
> 
> **(( she had, but that’s a story for another time ))
> 
> I've made a Terpsichore playlist for those who would like to listen to the music titled in each chapter section, as well as some mentioned within the chapters. They are pieces selected that evoke a theme, or feeling, or inspiration, or even introduce a leitmotif (example: Giselle and the piece 'Apparition de l'Oiseau de feu' connecting Giselle as a sort of Firebird), it tends to vary but it is not law. Think of it like very broad brush strokes for the words to dance to.  
> Story-wise it is NOT essential to listen to, just a fun little add on. ;)  
> After all whats a dance without some music? Enjoy! https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLqvaWUKCMWx29ffZ3BEF2-KHnDg058-qf


	2. Galop / La Bataille: Allegro Vivo / No. 9 – Finale Andante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the bonds are set.

ACT I

[continued]

 

Galop

 

Strickler had quite the long night ahead of him, despite employing several goblins for help. It still took a few hours to readjust his office, and the drain of lack of sleep began to crown his brows. Though cleaning was cathartic, while placing books and re-arranging paper work, his mind would do the same. Racking about on the potential changelings under him who would even conceive the idea of usurping him. Not when he had the ring, not before the changelings are better established. He had expected something like this would happen eventually, (changelings being ambitious folk, and Bular being gone to solidify rank amongst them under fear) but this soon?  Was there some other changeling order?

He pandered to that idea for a bit. Some rogue order with unknown affiliations, perhaps once created by Janus for some political espionage take over (there were so many takeovers).

Bonds made in battle and silent promises to come to one’s aid, to fight if they fought.  

And what, am I to be some Archduke? He thought. Placing a book on a shelf a little harder than needed. The goblins froze in the room, looked at him in unison, as if anticipating something (he paid them no mind), then went back to their duties.

Unless of course the trolls in Trollmarket were getting dirty. Either way once the thief is brought to him he’ll get his answers one way or another. Whether it is some changeling conspiracy coup d’état, or Trollmarket stepping up their game.

Whatever anger was left turned bitter and petty with the hour. Though unsure how the tables would turn, he knew they would soon enough. Patience, he told himself.

 

With a groan Strickler stretched silhouetted against a lavender sky, about to breach the dawn. Mouth parched. He winced out of the stretch, his middle still smarting from the night’s fight.

“That’ll do for now.” He croaked and waved at the goblins. Yawning as they slunk away. He rummaged a drawer for some tylenol he remembered seeing, and dry swallowed the pills. Ah, that’s how he remembered where he placed the tylenol, he stashed it with the Kate Beaton book just before cleaning.

Now alone in his office he opened the little yellow book to a random page; it was a comic strip about Tesla Edison and Marconi. 

Initially the book was going to be a gift for his star pupil for a coming school book festival; where teachers and students were invited to swap books and donate books that had served their purpose and could serve others more. Walter found the smart humor charming, to say the least, and perhaps something Jim would enjoy as well. Being no stranger to his student’s home life, (as over the two years of knowing the lad Walter found himself fitting in the role of friendly professional mentor to this human Atlas) to place an added comfort to this overworked lad would be a bonus.

Then Jim becoming Trollhunter happened, and for a short while the book transformed to a potential means of reaching out to Young Atlas, and sharing that he knew what Jim meant by ‘chess club’ (encrypted of course, but the teacher had faith in his pupil’s wiles) perhaps even come to a conclusion that would suit them both. After all a human Trollhunter would change everything.

Alas, such a gesture never came to pass. The changeling closed the book with a dry sniff, and hid it away in his inner office. 

 

Walter Strickler picked up his briefcase and headed towards his car, its unlocking obnoxiously loud in the empty parking lot. When the car sprang into life with the turn of his key he immediately turned off the radio. He was too tired to contemplate anything aside from water, and bed. Well, he did contemplate running a red light seeing as there was barely a soul on the road.

Just as he was about to raise his foot from the pedal he saw from his rear view mirror another car coming up. A sigh, and Walter abided the rules of the road.

A casual glance to the other car turned into a double take. It was Barbara. Of _course_ it would be with his odds and her hours. Barbara's posture was slumped slightly, the want of sleep still hugging at her back. He watched as she exhaled and gently tapped the sides of her cheeks in an attempt to wake up. Feeling he was rudely staring, Walter started to turn his eyes away, but not soon enough.

They shared a surprised look, and he could feel his ears burning. He waved sheepishly; her face brightened considerably, a red tint of her own forming around her cheeks. From the previous wake up taps, Walter convinced himself. 

“What are you doing up so early?” she mouthed

You mean so late? He wanted to mouth. Pantomiming a shrug he instead mouthed, “Trouble sleeping.” And brought his two hands together by his face in a sleeping gesture.

She chuckled; he wished he could hear it.

With a look at her wrist-watch and a quick number crunch Barbara began to pantomime drinking when a car from behind blared their horn. She jumped in her seat, and Walter clutched his chest in surprise.

The light had turned green.

Barbara raised her hand apologetically to the car blocked behind them, and with a look at Walter (who had finished counting to ten) pointed to the curb-side. He couldn’t decide whether to curse the driver behind them or thank them.

 

“You won’t be late for work?” he asked joining her as the two leaned against Barbara's car.

“Oh I have time, I always try to leave a little early. Gives me time to mentally prepare. Steel myself a bit haha…some days I need it more than others.” Gracious he was always floored by how brutally honest she could be.

“Is..is today one of those days? I don’t want to keep you if-“ he felt her hand on his forearm.

“Its not, I promise you.” A light thankful squeeze on his forearm.

He studied her face as if to try to find some lie in it, not that Barbara was a liar (anything but), but who wouldn’t occasionally mask themselves? How hard to read the incredibly honest can be, he found, and took her word for it. Or perhaps he lived in lies so much the truth was startling. No. Barbara was startling, that was for sure, wielding her heart on her sleeve with the elegance and majesty of Joan of Arc. How frightfully brilliant, he contemplated, and he’d be damned to ever see her burned at the stake for it.

“How about you?”

Chastely he patted her hand, “Ah well, nothing like insomnia and running thoughts to help motivate you to watch the sunrise.” He mused.

“Would you…want to talk about it?” Her eyes empathetically pressing with the want to help, he suppressed an urge to smooth her brow. Instead he wove truth, lies, and reality like a spider’s web.

“It is nothing too scandalous really…being a- principal is a lot…trickier than I had imagined. There are your plans, and other teacher’s plans, and the hope the two plans are similar enough to work together. Though there’s always one rogue teacher.”

“Rogue teacher?”

“Well…the ones wanting to be the next John Keating without knowing how…admirable as that is, there are still some guidelines that must be followed. My how the wheel turns, I suppose.”  He scratched the back of his neck sighing an age-old weariness, and surprised himself in saying, “Sometimes I wonder, if I’m really cut out for this job…”

“I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit Walter. Sure I’ve heard some parents complain about your teaching methods, but at the end of the day, you care about the kids, right?”

Walter Strickler thought of his sibling brethren, and what they could achieve given the chance, “…Yes...” He admitted.

“Then that’s reason enough to be ‘the right cut’ in my book, and those years of hands on teaching experience doesn’t hurt either.” She playfully nudged him making contact with his middle. It took _everything_ to repress a sound; a tear came to his eye.

Walter dared a smile. This time he placed his hand on her forearm. When it felt as though he wouldn’t wheeze or betray signs of pain he said as compassionately as he could, “Thank you for that Barbara.”

“That being said, how are you going to manage work in this condition? Are you even okay to drive? You look like you fisticuffed a bear. ”

“Is that all?” running a hand through his hair self-consciously with a dry chuckle, careful not to move too fast to betray anything, “It isn’t my first sleepless night working…” he admitted, “However, I’m sure a quick nap and showing up an hour or so late is a luxury I can afford. My secretary is quite competent, and I’m confident in my ability to- ‘catch up’. I’d miss first period the latest.”

“Hmm _first_ period? Ooo I don’t know…maybe I should retract what I said earlier doubt the principal playing hookie makes for a good role model.” another banter fueled nudge, this time he blocked it with a raised placative palm.

“You know the saying do as I say not as I - Steady there, you might put me out of commission, and risk _second_ period to boot.”

She playfully tried again, “How about third?” and he caught her hand.

“I warn you,” giving her hand a gentle squeeze, “I have a very close friend who knows krav maga.”

“You don’t say.”

“Rumor has it,” he dropped his voice lower, softer, “they’re even a _coveted_ orange belt.”

They stared into one another for a while magnetized by the other’s eyes. He could practically smell the peppermint from Barbara's morning toothbrush routine. He dared not think what his own breath smelled like. Walter didn’t have to struggle with the thought for too long, as a fool with a very loud engine, music, and very large car sped by, dropkicking what muted silence there was. How gauche. The moment gone, Walter and Barbara leaned away as if both imitating the Tower of Pisa. Looking at anything but the other in awkward smiling stammers.

“Any news on the field trip availability?”

“Oh! Yes, Friday after 6 should be fine.”

“I’ll pick you up from the hospital then?”

Barbara blushed, “Actually I was thinking maybe we could meet at our usual spot. Not that I don’t want you to pick me up!” she quickly added, “That-that’s a very sweet offer, Walt. I just want to…run an errand before hand.” Under a slightly examined look on his part she added, “…freshen up, wear something not blue.” Picking at her scrubs.

 “My dear, you could wear a potato sack and pull it off.”

“As true as that might be,” she smirked, “I’d prefer to wear something else.”

“A good a reason as any.” He smiled.

They both chortled embarrassingly. The sun considerably higher against the horizon, birds chirping more and more frequently.

Her phone beeped, which reminded the good doctor of the time, and how much she had left before clocking in.

“That’s my cue.” Her voice low, reluctant. She shifted her weight some, away. Then, without warning, Barbara leaned forward and kissed Walter on the cheek in farewell. Catching the sleep-deprived changeling by surprise, it worked better than any coffee or rejuvenation potion. Heart fluttering to a Tritsch –Tratsch-Polka with the goofiest gosh darn smirks.

“Keep you posted on my lunch schedule?”

“Hm? Ah? Yes…lunch, quite good…”

“Get some rest Walt.” She was pushing him off her car now, and in the direction of his own. He hardly noticed his middle hurting.

“I feel as if I had a double espresso.”

“Rest.”

“Did birds always sing in the morning?”

“Text me when you get home Walt, and not the entire myth of Morpheus this time, as great a read as _that_ was on my break.” She joked with a wry smile.

“Yes…Morpheus..Neil Gaiman wrote-“ get a hold of yourself Strickler.

“Bye Walter! TTFN.”

A semi hummed, “Mmhmm ta ta for now.” was his reply.

 

It was lucky his own hand was on his car door handle, he felt like he could float away, and goodness knows he had the wings to do it. Walter gave a dopey-eyed wave, while his insides screamed for him to get a grip. How he got back to his apartment was beyond him, but the sky was crisp with gold hues, and someone must have freshly cut their lawn, and sprinklers chimed and shimmied arcs of rainbows in the rising morning light.

 

 

La Bataille: Allegro Vivo

 

_There was ringing, a deafening ringing, the telltale whistling of an incoming hit. What was it? Cannon fire? Arrows? Lead bullets? Carbine? Did it matter? It all meshed together in the valley. Rocks slowly sinking into the mud with their weight. Don’t look outside the tent, don’t open the canvas._

_There was a table in the middle of the tent, on it plans and maps and convoluted lines. The shouting over the not so distant incoming fire, the shaking with every hit as the lamp above would flicker or shake or lose power._

_“Oh, my piglets, we are the origins of war,” said a voice. Was it his own? There were others in the tent, it might have come from them; a redcoat, a Scotsman, a paratrooper, someone from the Grande Armée, a Roman legionary – to name a few, and a woman – no, Lady in a golden helm aflame. Ah now she commanded the room, “we are the origins of war: not history’s forces, nor the times, nor justice, nor the lack of it,” he felt as though he was gesturing to a map, he knew he wanted the Lady to consent to a plan, “nor causes, nor religions, nor ideas, nor kinds of government, nor any other thing.”_

_Another near by hit, the tent shook, it was close – too close. The tarp was opening some dark figure loomed in twice the size of the tent. Eyes aflame in gold-or blue?_

_“We are the killers. We breed wars.” The figure was approaching Stricklander. He felt wary, he had done all he could, planned everything, but not this, “We carry it like syphilis inside.” The figure grabbed Stricklander by his horns, his long horns that were close to arching behind him. Stricklander pleaded, claws picking and pulling at the figure that held him, a glance to the Helmed Lady, digging his feet into the earth, alas – soft mud._

_The tarp widening enough to spot the entanglement of barbed wire beyond, and those unlucky caught in it._

_“Dead bodies rot in field and stream because the living ones are rotten.” Like a skipping stone Stricklander was chucked out into the mud, sticking to it in his last skip, sinking in mud the more he struggled to move or back away from the approaching figure._

_He could feel eyes on him like thousands of red and yellow eyed rats waiting to eat up what carcass would remain untouched, “For the love of God, can’t we love one another just a little” his head felt a tugging, and Stricklander screamed –yet who could hear with all the bombing?_

_“-that’s how peace begins. We have so much to love each other for.”_

_A sickening crunch, his body going limp and falling into the mud. Horns jagged, uneven, in pieces like a broken crown. The sun might have been rising, who could tell through all the smoke? The bombs either stopped, or Stricklander couldn’t hear anymore._

_“We have such possibilities, my children. We could change the world.”_ **

Strickler jolted, upright in a cold sweat, and green blaze, head aching with some phantom feeling. He gazed around the room ready for attack, knife manifesting in hand. Walter Strickler was alone in his apartment, with only the company of his tv playing the end credits to “The Lion in Winter”.  His heart was pounding, he steadied his hands into the cushions, knife vanishing before contact. Cushions clutched with all his might, the changeling started counting.

 

It was 9:30am. The kettle was placed to make tea, bread in the toaster, tv off. The curtains billowed as fresh air came in through the windows. Walter Strickler, still in troll form, eyed himself over in the bathroom mirror. Hands passing over his middle- not as tender, now made of stone. He avoided looking at his horns. Those jagged horns that had a faint pale mark where they were once mangled. Much like how mountains formed over time, so did broken off horns – though this rule only applied to horns, like the way antlers could change, break, and grow over the seasons so could troll horns, (horns being as alive as hair follicles). Except it took longer, and not always in the same shape. However there are those who wrap their horns in an attempt to reform the same shape. As much as Strickler would have wanted to wrap his horns, when they first broke, they were broken for a reason, to try to reform them would’ve been insubordination, and a sign he had learned nothing. In any case, despite his occasional mood towards them, Strickler appreciated their new shape – or made sure to, out of spite.  

A flash of green, and Walter Strickler was in human form once more. Smoothing his hair over before opening the mirror compartment for more tylenol, head aching. After dry swallowing he checked his phone. His face illuminated by the screen’s light (he hadn’t bothered to turn on the bathroom light).

         _Glad you made it safe!_

He stared at the message for a while, and realized the kettle was whistling for him.

“Yes, yes…coming.”

 

It was quiet, he was quiet, the only sound coming from the muted scraping of a butter knife covered in raspberry jam on his toast. His apartment was moderately clean, nothing so wild as clothes left on the floor, but it could use some dusting, and there were books strategically placed through out the apartment (especially near walk way counter tops, and seating areas, and the seats themselves) so he could read or re-pick up a book no matter the location. Tennessee Williams in one corner, Richard Adams in another. Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett never too far from one another, usually reserved for window seating. While Gregory Maguire and Mary Shelley kept the other company, Felix Salten and Jane Austen colluded (and that was just prose).

Reaching his arm from the kitchen table, he found LM Montgomery not too far away, and absent mindedly leafed through the hardcover. That’s right, he wasn’t above children’s books, in fact he found their optimism occasionally refreshing. He couldn’t _always_ read Milton and brood through the passages.

His phone buzzed softly. Something akin to a smile found itself on his face, reading the text:

_“There’s a chance I might be free after 5. A rarity, we were overscheduled today.”_

_“A heavenly blunder.”_ He wrote back to whom one of Montgomery’s titular characters would have called a ‘kindred spirit.’ “ _I do have an appointment around that time, hopefully it wont take too long.”_

Walter stole himself a few more minutes of quiet and texting before heading back to the school in time for second period to begin.

 

         Around 4p, Same Day Janus Archives

 

Filled with physical copies of current whereabouts, past and current, doings and allegiances. Not to mention catalogues of artifacts and their studies (fit for all eyes, the confidentials were kept separately). Strickler found it important to have physical copies of everything, especially in this digital age (Le Faye forbid they go dark and have to stop movements because of a short-circuit- how embarrassing).

His reason for being in the archives was to follow through in his earlier pandering. Scan through the different changeling niches that were formed over history. The teams made and for what missions.

Could Strickler have easily looked this all up from his inner-office? Yes, and more – but a part of him really wanted to put his fellow changelings on edge. Perhaps pick up on a vibe he might not have noticed before.

The archives department wasn’t always the most crowded. At most, perhaps four or five changelings at a time. It severely depended if one of the changelings think they heard The Pale Lady through the phonograph, which would bring almost the entire Order in to research and de-bunk and de-code some vague whisper or sound or vowel. Hardly ever a full sentence.

It had been a long while since that had happened, but much like how some feel rain coming in their bones, he felt _something_ coming in his horns.

That aside, Strickler wasn’t there for the phonograph.

At the reception table were two changelings signing to one another. Their hands moving about with great animation, which made him think perhaps a joke was just made.

There was Zurougia a large one-legged corpulent changeling with formidably sculpted arms (currently in their human form). They were known for their offensive prowess, and no stranger to the front lines. The changeling to call when words started to fail.

And Karenna; pear shaped with goat legs, a squashed face and scars about her jaw and neckline where her voice box was. She was known for her reconnaissance ability, and was quite the Spanish Inquisitor at the time.  

There is no shame among changelings when it comes to being able to walk away from a fight, or encounter, or other. No dishonor if the fight wasn’t finished. There was morbid admiration, (much like how some showed off their scars), to the fact you lived to see another night. Changelings were survivors. You survived, and you’ll keep surviving no matter the cost. 

Politely Strickler tapped the table and signed, “ **Zurougia, Karenna. How are things?** ”

The two started to respectfully get up, but with a raised hand he motioned they could remain seating. The three nodded curtly to one another before continuing.

“ **Stricklander! What brings you down here to our humbled level?** ” signed Karenna.

“ **Someone die?** ” Zurougia signed with a deadpan.

“ **No…not yet at least.** ” The two changelings made a laughing gesture and hid their unease well. The Inferna Copula glinted in the light as he continued to sign, “ **Was in the area, and felt like making a few rounds. That’s…not a problem, is it?** ” he studied their faces patiently.

“ **A few rounds from our esteemed leader? Welcomed even.** ” Karenna signed through her grinned teeth.

“ **Otto isn’t here.** ” Went Zurougia.

“ **I’m aware of that. Thank you.** ” He wasn’t.

“ **Did the notice of our recent archive update not go through? Bai just made contact in Shanghai.”** after signing Zurougia started to type something on their keyeboard, to bring up the notice in question. Strickler tapped on the desk again politely, getting their attention.

“ **Yes. Thank you for that as well. I’m sure her transition to news editor will go equally well.** ” He leaned forward and casually scanned the open directory on the table, “ **I trust the physical copies are in order?** ”

“ **Yes.** ” Signed Zurougia, bluntly.

“ **Of course.** ” Signed Karenna, haughtily.

“ **Wonderful.** ” Went Strickler, and made his way around the desk into the archive labyrinth. The two changelings followed him with their eyes. Turning his torso he signed, “ **As you were.** ”

 

It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, except he wasn’t even sure what the needle looked like. The needle knew ballet, had white hair, and was fast. Maybe something about a bird? Possibly from the Italian branch? Who’s to say. Strickler was grasping at straws, and he knew it.

Hunched over at a table he was pouring over a recounting of the unification of Italy and Garibaldi when he heard a tap vibrate from the leg of the table. Looking up he saw Karenna with a tea tray. Strickler arched his brows.

He pointed to himself. She nodded.

“ **Poisoned?** ” he signed.

Karenna grinned, and he gifted a rare grin himself.

It had been a while since they both had worked together, it was brief but he had worked with worse changelings before. A sentimental part of him remembered when she first came through the fetch, a wild loud thing.

Maybe it was the tea, the perusing of records upon records of past exploits, or the fact that she wasn’t using her voice box, that brought him to sign, “ **Karenna, is everything alright?** ” one was never personal in more than groups of two. Much like Janus, and changeling faces, there were also two faces to when one spoke personally alone with another, and in a group.

She stiffened, and her signing started to echo with the impact of her hands, “ **I don’t ask you about your horns – you don’t ask me about my larynx.** ” Proud and defensive.

An inward sigh, and patiently he signed, “ **Fair enough.** ”

Strickler went back to reading about the changelings who infiltrated the Cacciatori delle Alpi, and re-read the same sentence a few times. Karenna was still standing there.

“ **I’m waiting on a shipment for a new piece of hardware.** ” Karenna looked about to get a sense of how alone the two of them were, and sat beside Strickler, “ **The equipment advances faster than this machine breaks. Sometimes I can’t use it for a while.** ”

He nods. “ **Sounds frustrating.** ”

“ **Infuriating.** ” A scowl on her face. She shifted in her seat, ears lowering, “ **Its easier to just sign, and sometimes its not…** ” she sat up straighter now, “ **but with Bular gone it isn’t life or death if I don’t have the machinery anymore. Inconvenient sometimes, yes, but not life or death.** ”

He starred at her, Karenna bit her lip then steadied her gaze with Strickler’s.

“ **What I am trying to get at is…whatever conniving scheme you have planned for the future…a part of me is…relieved that it isn’t the alternative.”**

At a loss for words Stricklander watched her, a caring swell in his chest.

“ **So don’t fuck it up.** ” She deadpanned, the corners of her mouth betraying a smile.

It was like a stress balloon popping, Strickler snorted and started to laugh. It took Karenna by surprise, jaw dropping a bit, but as his laughing continued she slowly began to snigger as well while moving her hands in a laughing gesture.

 

 

No. 9 – Finale Andante

 

Walter Strickler was parked outside of The Red Fern Café Gelato and Coffee Bar. Not directly of course, but close enough to watch and scope it out. So far there had been no sign of the thief working. It was a long shot, clearly, as the thief also retained some damages from the night before.

It was already nearly 6, and Barbara had texted him twice so far. Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel he started to grow tense.

The telltale sound of a portal opening in his backseat told the changeling Angor Rot was appearing.

“Well?” He asked flatly, not looking at his assassin.

Angor Rot growled some.

“Are you telling me she got away?” Strickler’s green eyes betrayed to yellow as he looked at Angor through his rear view mirror, “And I’m expecting you to kill a human _child_??”

“The hunt lasted a good part of the night, and day…she wasn’t alone.”

Strickler arched a brow, face unmoved.

“..she commands a raven…while also following the raven…it is unclear who is chasing who.”

“ _Unclear_.” Strickler sniffed, there was a lie here, but where?

“With a distinct smell of human.”

“A human woman, who _dances_ more than fights…got away.”

“With the help of a raven.”

Strickler clenched his fist, Angor Rot did his best to hold in a groan. A small voice in Stickler’s head was worried about how good it felt to do that.  

“The Trollhunter is going to Gatto’s Keep…seeking his treasures…knowing Gatto, it is _doubtful_ he and his band will return.” A malicious smile crept on Angor Rot’s face.

The maelstrom was growing in the back of Strickler’s mind. He tried not to think of Jim dying, and another part of him was confident Jim wouldn’t die. “Death at the hands of _Gatto_ , after facing _Bular_?? _Preposterous_.” Said his inner voice.

In the anxiety of not having his thoughts read on his face (no matter how stonefaced he was at the moment, pun not intended) he projected, “So a dancing human woman got away, you’re letting Gatto finish the hunt for you…was _anything_ accomplished?”

Angor Rot procured the charm in cold silence.

 

         The Usual Café Spot

 

Barbara and Walter were sitting at their favorite table by the corner. The potted cypress billowed with a cool breeze, a bird chirped from within. Cars would pass; the clocks kept ticking and marching onwards, unstopping. Tea was ordered, pleasantries made. Pardons for tardiness, and exchanged hand squeezes with awkward mutual reddening. She was telling the tale of a heart attack survival, admiration swelling within him, and the sun backlit her red fiery hair. Joan of Arc indeed. With the duality to blaze brightly, and extinguish just as fast. The near grounding of Jim was mentioned, and Walter suppressed the mental image of what she’d look like; torn and broken with Jim’s death.

Walter Strickler found himself hoping Jim would make it. Then struggled with what he just thought, as images of Karenna, Zurougia, and hundreds upon hundreds of other changelings crept behind his eyelids. Jim will most likely survive, and Strickler will have to find out what he went to Gatto for…he had a hunch as to what. Perhaps he can _control_ whether or not Jim is successful, perhaps he could buy some more time.

Somewhere a phonograph handle was itching to turn, and Strickler’s headache was returning. He squeezed the charm in his hand.

 

Drink with me, my love

For there is fire in the sky,

And there’s ice on the ground

Either way, my soul will die

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(Dialogue taken from Eleanor of Aquitaine’s monologue in the movie “The Lion in Winter” – great Christmas film btw, up there next to Die Hard)
> 
> The bit at the end are lyrics from Natasha Pierre & The Great Comet Of 1812's 'The Duel' 
> 
> This was my first time writing characters who use sign language, feel free to tell if and where I can improve :]


	3. Chanson a Boire Et Scène/ Aquarius / Apparition de L’Oiseau de Feu [Coda Remix]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the moon is in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As one can guess from the chapter summery the musical Hair will be brought up, and talked about. Those of you who end up wanting to listen to the soundtrack of the musical please keep in mind Hair is a musical of and from its time. Despite the musical's 60's progressive intentions there are jokes and lyrics that wouldn't sit too well in today's time, thus much like old propaganda cartoons please be aware, and I repeat; Hair is a musical of and from its time.

ACT I  
[Continued]  
Chanson a Boire Et Scène

 

Walter Strickler had no idea what to expect. He had theories, and studied the concept of the charm that bound himself and Barbara together, sure. But this was different, Walter was currently living it, not reading it and crafting notes and schemes. While in the presence of Barbara, and even Jim afterwards (whom he ended up having mixed feelings for seeing alive, and thought something along the lines of ‘bloody knew you’d come through, un-killable little roach, good on you’ peppered with some pride) Walter didn’t have the time to contemplate and feel what difference there might have been before the charm, and after. At least, not to the same extent as _obsessing_ over this new predicament between the witching hours of 1-3am.

All this to say, Walter was terrified at how jarringly intimate this all was. While in the mist of pacing and head scratching, Walter started to feel pins and needles on his right arm. With a slow wide eyed head turn, he looked at his arm as if it was some cloven hoof, utterly unrecognizable. He shimmied his shoulders and watched it wiggle with the inertia of his body. It took several moments of touching his own arm to realize; Barbara’s arm must have fallen asleep. This was stupefying. Walter also felt incredibly intrusive upon wondering just what position Barbara could possibly be sleeping in to make her arm fall asleep. A mental image came to mind that made him blush, hair sprawled, sheets twisted… He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, snarling the ungentlemanly action away. This wasn’t even passed the full 24 hour mark. With a whiskey shot to burn his throat and mind, he thought best to go to bed. 

 

Come morning, the anxiousness was far from over. Walter Strickler never felt more aware of what could cause pain. Using mittens to take the whistling kettle off the fire. Paying extra attention to how he turned pages in his books. Making sure to take rests if he was writing or typing for too long, hindering any wrist cramping that could happen. Stretching when sitting for too long. (things he should have been doing for himself in the first place, really)

Walter didn’t want to cause any more harm than necessary.

He had already thoughtlessly bumped his knee (on accident) on a table that day, and was stricken with icy worry; what if Barbara was at the operating table and some poor soul was opened up beneath her knife (an intricate something needing to be done), and a knee pain comes in from nowhere?!

Luckily that didn’t end up being the case as Walter quickly shot a text to the good doctor’s way

_Just finished some paper work, thoughts wandered your way, how are you?_

A bit of pacing, and then Barbara responded, (which almost caused Strickler to accidentally hit his other knee).

 _Just got on my break! Excited for tonight._

Walter sighed relief, but was washed over with another emotion, a little more bittersweet. He hesitated with his thumbs some, before typing

_Me too._

 

            Later, School

 

The final bell was struck for the school day. Walter collected his things and roamed the halls while students scuttled about eagerly leaving the building.

“Careful Mathews, mind your step.” he said to one student while avoiding having his foot stepped on.

He was passing a series of lockers by the corner when he inadvertently heard a pair of students discussing their extracurricular activities. One holding a violin case, the other a large dance bag.

“Son of a goblin.” he muttered.

 

            Later Still, Coppélius Dance Studio

 

It was ridiculous, humiliating even. Was ridiculous mentioned? Lets mention that again.

The thief was standing there in the middle of the dance room, clapping her hands to the tempo while middle schoolers, and perhaps two high schoolers Walter recognized in passing, were working on a variation at the barre. To the side of the room were two other people a tall silver haired man, and a rather short bespectacled and thin woman, both in their late 50’s early 60’s. The owners of the ballet studio, Walter guessed, it seemed as though they were watching how the thief could potentially teach their students (if they decided to keep her as a teacher by the end of the lesson).

“Teaching spiel indeed.” He bitterly muttered under his breath. 

“Be sure when pointing to lead with the heal, wait for the last possible moment to point. Think of it like striking a match with your foot. Yes, good George. Sit up out of your hips, dears. Good.” The thief looked through the open doorway to the waiting room where parents could potentially wait or watch their kids.

She raised her brow in what the changeling could define as moderate shock. No telltale raven this time, eh? Walter waved and settled himself in a chair next to a confused parent, she returned to teaching.

“Make sure to rotate outward from your inner thighs, don’t and I mean _don’t_ force your turn out. Or you might have to get new knees by 30.”

“Mr. Strickler? As I live and breath!” drawled a voice beside him.

A turn of his head caused him to take better notice of the human sitting beside him.

“Ah, yes-hullo Mrs. Fiene.”

“Funny seeing you here, got one of your own in there?” she gestured to the classroom with a swirling index finger. Another parent in the room looked up from their phone eyeing the childless adult in a children’s dance studio.

Oh dear, before anything could be misconstrued he said, “Not quite, I do have a prior engagement with the instructor after this…” he feigned looking at his watch then at the clock, and started to fiddle with his watch, “though it would seem I’m a tad early.”

The response seemed to satisfy the alerted parents, much to his relief.

“You don’t say! Well how do you know Giselle?”

“We…” he glanced into the classroom at the thief gesturing to her leg describing the complex mechanics of how to achieve a simple relevé to children, “sort of bumped into one another. She mentioned she danced, and I’m a pinch out of practice with my ballroom technique myself.”

“Ballroom? Oh I didn’t know she could teach that.”

“From one teacher to another, I’m confident in her abilities.” absentmindedly he scratched his chin.

“I just hope if she sticks around she’ll put some pepper into Amelia’s step.” tutted the parent Walter didn’t recognize from behind her phone, “honestly how is she going to get any scholarships if she’s always in the back of the class.”

Walter became thin lipped as Mrs Fiene swatted her hand in the parent’s direction, “Taylor!”

Walter really shouldn’t meddle, yet some gut reaction from many a parent teacher conference found himself saying, “I’d be careful not to turn what is a fun hobby to a child into a chore. It can drain the whimsy of doing it all together. Its a hard enough sport as it is, that could lead to a lot of damaging effects later on in life.”

The light emitting from Taylor’s phone clicked off as quickly as her eyes snapped at Walter, “Where do you get off talking to me about my kid?”

“As someone with the resources of finding other scholarships should- Miss Amelia, was it? Become _disillusioned_ with her current path.” was his dry explanation, “That is to say should Miss Amelia attend Arcadia Oaks High.”

Taylor muttered something about districts but Walter paid no mind. The severity parents could place on their children was down right appalling sometimes. 

His gaze returned to the class at hand. Watching as the so called Giselle taught, it was clear to the changeling that despite the ruse there was passion in her teaching. He could respect that.

She taught on, sculpting and developing their bodies to one day move like bird people, princes, and fairies (among other fantastical things), believably. The driving and ever changing force of humanity. Where it took but a thought for him to change, these children would dedicate their lives (should they choose to continue) to change and push the boundaries of human movement.

To which the thief concluded her lesson with a clap and smile, “Thats it for today dearies. Thank you for having me teach today, maybe we’ll see each other again. If you take anything away from my lesson today I hope you take this; please be _kind_ to yourselves, and your bodies.” She eyed over the crowd warmly, “Now scatter, get out of here you scamps.” The classroom all applauded, as was custom to some dance studios to do at the end of a lesson, and students began gathering their things.

Finally. Walter stood up from his chair nodding to a few students, and repressed a huff when seeing the thief talking to a lingering student. A small potbellied child, hair slicked into a bun with a few wisps of unruly curls at her hairline. They were talking about pirouettes.

Shifting where he stood, he helped himself to some water from the dispensary, “‘scuse me.” said a small voice that joined him. Stepping aside he heard Taylor hiss, “Amelia c’mon, I need to start making dinner.”

“Okay.” waddled Amelia throwing her cup away in passing, “..Did you watch me jump? Pretty high right?”

 _Bon chance_ , thought Walter.

 

It took roughly ten more minutes before the thief was free from questioning, from small dancers at least. He crumpled his little paper cup as she strolled over with a jaunty step and bright smile.

“You sure took your time finding me, Pwyll.”

“A fan of Welsh mythology, are we? Or is it the accent?” not that he carried a Welsh accent, it was the second time Strickler heard her call him that.

“A bit of both, a bit of none.” she said through smiling teeth waving at onlooking children and parents.

He motioned to her face where he punched and scratched her the other night during the fight, “Nice cover job, by the way.” he added cheaply.

She framed her face with her hand in a cool grace, making a show of her handy work with makeup. In truth he wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t the one who hit her to begin with.

Though instead of referencing her makeup skills she snarked, “You never did let me explain myself on the teacher front.”

“I hope you’re future responses are more _illuminating_.” he smiled at her in guise of friendly conversation when his patience was already fraying.

An amiable chuckle escaped her, “Oh che s’aspetta…io ci sono, tu ci sei !”* a Tuscan dialect released (with breathy ‘ch’ sounds).

Yet in such a contradictory way the thief started to move away. Brows furrowed Strickler’s brain scraped through every interaction so far, the references, the ballet; human or not she was following some set of arcane rules. A breath, and he gripped her forearm catching her. The thief didn’t fight back this time, but cracked a knowing smile. 

“No more round about answers.” he ordered, she nodded, “What is your name, where did you come from?” for at this point he had his doubts of her being from this knowing earth.

“Giselle Sylvia De Cecco - no joke. Though I have come to claim many other names, some more infamous than others; Diana, L’ombra Bianca, ma alla fine sono sempre Senza Nome.**”She searched Strickler’s reaction-less face, as if searching if these names meant anything to him. 

With a mental note made, the thief continued, “I’m not one of Morgana’s children. Though I’m confident you already managed to deduce that.”

Strickler loosened his hold some, cordially he switched his grip to a hooked arm, which probably looked better to onlookers.

Walter went to open his mouth, but she kept going, “Antiscians, you know of this, yes?” she gestured towards the door, he nodded as they stepped out.

“Opposite sides of the equator on the same plot on a map-“

“As well as people who live on opposite sides of the world…” the thief palmed a quarter to show as an example. Walter checked his pocket and gave her a look. She ignored him and continued, “Imagine this side with the head being where you dwell, the Darklands and Shadow Realm - among others, being in the grooves and side of the coin.” she flipped the coin in the air and caught it showing the opposite side, “Then there is Antiscians. Land of horizons and mirrors. Similar to here in many ways, yet distorted.” she flipped the coin again, “One side heads, the other tails. All sides cohabiting on the same coin, same Earth.”

“Cohabiting, but not intersecting.”

Giselle gave a high pitched hum considering this, “Debatable, but it certainly depends on the variables and what you’re trying to do.” she handed the coin back to Strickler, “After all - here _I_ am - no?”

“There would need a proper threshold then.” He examined the coin, much like he examined this parallel universe concept of hers. A worried thought shot to Gunmar, “Emphasis on proper.”

Meanwhile Giselle leaned away from Strickler as she plunged her hand through the open window of a mimosa yellow mini cooper pulling out some cigarettes. Strickler highly doubted the cooper was legally hers. 

“Also debatable.” muffled Giselle bobbing a cigarette between her lips while now searching for a lighter, “Take Pwyll who -while hunting- just _stumbles_ into the Otherworld aka Annwn.”

Strickler exhaled a huff through his nose, pocketing the coin back in his pocket, “I always took it as a telling of a poor human stumbling through to the Darklands.”

“Ah!”, having finally found a lighter, “there are more realms and portals than your Darklands-” she said through the side of her mouth between an inhale, “-and Shadow Realm, caro mio.” she exhaled the smoke skyward, and chucked the lighter back into the cooper inevitably to get lost again, “Hence - Antiscians…though perhaps Atlantis would have been a better example, being set and framed on a horizon. Which is one of the reasons why it is so tricky to pin point… _which_ horizon _which_ shadow. As the waltz of the hours changes so does the entry.”

Strickler gave himself a moment to compartmentalize. In a world of magic and portals it wasn’t too hard to believe, yet it tugged at the back of his mind. A parallel world?! This could be a game changer. Alright, he’ll take the bait.

“What… differences are there? Are…are there trolls? You clearly know of the Pale Lady…” he went while looking for the right words to ask if in this parallel world there are changelings, and if there were - were they treated any better?

Giselle studied his face some, “No…not that I’m aware of…there are merfolk, harpies, satyrs…classic Arthurian Legends..”

The two were croaked at by a raven that was preening itself on the roof of the dance school.

“And different kingdoms” she nodded as if the raven reminded her to mention the fact. 

The changeling pinched the bridge of his nose, giving a hollow laugh. Giselle looked up and made kissing sounds to the corvid while dancing her fingers on the roof of the cooper.

“Yet while coming from a land with no trolls and its lore, you know of Morgana’s Children,” sharply he tightened his hooked arm closer to himself, pulling Giselle’s attention from the raven and towards him, voice severely low, “And my name.”

Giselle, eyeing him, slowly raised the cigarette to her mouth. Strickler snatched it, dropped it to the ground and extinguished it with his foot - while counting to ten.

“You” gesturing to her,“ _both_ ,” he gestured to the hopping raven as well, a twitching beetle in its beak, “gave my attendant quite the run around the other night. Curious how you managed to evade a fine huntsman and even finer killer.”

“Curiouser still _Stricklander_ , how can one catch smoke?” Strickler could feel his eyes prickling with the want to glow, while the corvid considered the sun’s reflection on the drainpipe.

“Ahimè! Quando è così, voglio aiutarti.”*** she relented exasperated, her free arm raised.

Strickler furrowed his brows as Giselle considered the best means to approach the following, “Time moves differently in different realms, yes?” Strickler stared at her, she continued, answering herself, “Yes. Minutes in the Shadow Realm can be seconds here-“

“And you’re getting at…?”

“Antiscians, works the same way…albeit a little more drastically.” His temper boiled like heated wax. Though, speaking of heated wax…

“ _Meaning_ we meet, we’ve met, we will meet,” her hands rolled in gestures as she spoke smirking at him, “you’ll see Pw-”

“ _What_..” now this was a statement he was not anticipating. Heightened by the feeling of an uncomfortable warmth a little too close to his human equivalent grunk-nuks.

“How I act like I know you? Its not an act…” she went on.

Strickler’s brow furrowed as he felt the weird warmth linger while also another manifesting on the other side. Strickler looked all around them, and stared at Giselle with the self conscious thought that the thief could see what was happening. Though with the way she kept talking she didn’t show signs of noticing, (or rather took it as Strickler compartmentalizing still).“Time passes differently in different realms,” he heard her continue.

Something was pricking - no pealing at where the first warmth was. Something was causing this, but what? How? They were practically alone in the dance studio parking lot.

Walter Strickler’s eyes widened with realization…this wasn’t happening to him…this was happening to Barbara.

Whatever the thief said next was lost to the sudden jolt of pain of the feeling of having hair and dead skin waxed off. 

“Strickler?” came Giselle’s voice in the distance.

It was at that moment Strickler realized the very high pitched sound he was hearing was actually coming from himself, “Know each other you say?” he said tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

Giselle at this point watched him struggle to continue to appear like everything was fine.

“When..?” he managed to say, there’s that hot spread again, like molten honey. He gestured to himself, her, and the bird who obliviously pecked at the drainpipe.

“Can’t give too much away,” Strickler didn’t notice the thief unhooked herself from his arm, “Just need to make sure what happens will hap-“

Strickler buckled a bit, and leaned against the mimosa yellow cooper. “ ..you tell me of this..” he heard her say through the white noise while blinking furiously. Giselle struggled to keep a straight face.

“My -ah- attendant - he did mention something along the lines of one chasing the other.” it was as if Greek fire was in his loins, at least with rule #3 its just one strike, this was borderline torture! What was that woman up to?!

“Yes…some might say the run around we give to each other is a bit…antiquated. Aaron here is quite troublesome, and has caused me a lot of trouble in his day.” she looked at the raven with some woebegone mirth that didn’t reach her eyes, “now his body is the same size of his heart.” she rocked her head a bit in consideration, “better than the original alternative.”

“I have to go.” his voice a little higher in pitch than usual. The raven croaked behind them, a nougat wrapper in its talons.

“We’ll meet in the canals.” he heard her say while he staggered to his own car. “Arrivederla! E in boca al lupo!!”

“ _Crepi!_ ” **** he snarled back with a snap of his car door shutting.

Her amused cackles followed Walter Strickler out of the parking lot. 

 

Aquarius 

 

Walter Strickler was beside himself, somewhere out there in Arcadia something was happening to Barbara and he had no idea where or what he could do about it. Grazing his thumb against his teeth he contemplated whether to call her.

He had thought about trying to see her at the hospital but shot himself down; _and say what, exactly? Excuse me my fine receptionist I was wondering if I could pop in on Barbara. I have this strange feeling her groin might be on fire. Won’t someone check in on her?_ No that simply wouldn't do.

Calling seemed the more rational choice, and thank The Pale Lady she answered.

“Barbara! How are you?”

“Walter? I’m, I’m fine still freshening up. Is..is everything okay?” picking up the concerned tone Walter wasn’t able to hide.

 _Freshening up?!_ Is everything okay, _okay_?! This bloody woman. This bloody ferociously terrifying woman. It wasn’t as if he could ask her what that entailed, that was just wrong on many levels. She didn’t sound like she was being tortured, that was a relief at least. “I..Ah yes..” he tried to unhinge the awed annoyance in his voice, thinking quickly, “I was wondering if you had a preference between white or red wine for this evening.”

“Oh that is serious.” she paused for a bit then answered, “why not both? I’ll bring the white you bring the red?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“See you soon.”

They hung up, and Walter felt that weird hot spread again.

 

            Soon

 

Walter was sitting at their favorite table by the corner of the café, leaning forward with his hands steepled. He used this time to digest his talk with Giselle, and tried to piece together the words she had said while under the pain of what Walter inevitably deduced (through a lot of embarrassing searches on his phone - some results exceedingly not pretty-) as a waxing.

A self grooming ritual to remove hair. He tried not to think too hard about it, he wasn’t even sure _what_ to think about it, his ears however betrayed a pink tint.

“Walt!” came the voice from behind, with an approaching air of lavender. The changeling stood to his feet and turned.

Barbra sported a navy blue knee length skirt, and a dashing light heather gray sweater that showed off her neckline.

“Hullo there Barbara.”

How she was walking in a straight line was beyond him (he barely trusted himself to). Terrifying, laudably terrifying. His ears deepened in their already pinky hue. 

“Were you waiting long?”

“Not at all. On the contrary, I thought I’d be late.” he snorted a laugh while he shifted where he stood, “Though I do have one embarrassing notion to bring up…my -ah.” he hit one fist (lightly, hardly registrable) against his leg in awkwardness, “my car is in the shop.”

“What?” her tone dropped. A cool medical calm came over Barbara as she stepped closer to Walter, “Did something happen?” intent in her eyes as she went to place the daintily bagged wine she had been holding on the closest chair.

“Nothing too drastic,” he prompted, both hands raised at the defense, as well as to halt any sort of head examination, “a little fender bender really…my car just wasn’t as well made,” he gave a self deprecating laugh, and tried not to think about how a sudden hot jolt of pain while driving made his reflex reaction be; to turn into a stop sign.

Sympathy washed over Barbara’s blue eyes like a wave, and before she could step a toe into the negative Walter pulled a basket from under the table he was at.

“No harm no foul, and still managed to ‘get the goods’- as they say.” If his previous words didn’t break her away from her worry the chortled snort that followed did.

She exhaled a smile and shook her head, “Good grief Walt…well I’m glad nothing serious came of it.” she relented.

“As am I.” he offered her his arm, and she took it, and the pale teal bag with her own goods. The two heading towards the good doctor’s car.

“But I’m driving.” she affirmed prodding at him some.

“Fair enough.” was his amused response.

 

Buckled in and ready to go the ‘the goods’ were placed on the floor of the backseat side by side. The car had a smell of lingering fast food that wasn’t entirely aired out just yet. Walter would describe it, though not unkindly, as a well lived in car (not that he was one to talk - who could keep their car vacuumed to perfection deserved an award and he was not that being). Walter wouldn’t be surprised to find a first aid kit somewhere if he searched hard enough, he had already spotted a set of extra scrubs folded in the back.

Barbara went to turn the ignition, and music started to blare, her curses lost to what Walter could identify as…sung Shakespeare? She fumbled with the volume dial with the same penitence as one who was chargeable for forgetting to leave their sing-along belting music on a high decibel before parking. Not the worst of crimes, though sensitively perceptive ears and aggressively loud music didn’t make the best of combinations. He relaxed his scrunched face.

Her eyes wide with concern as she fiddled with her hair, “I’m so so sorry about that - your ears okay?”

“What?”

“I said are your ears ok-”

“What??” he placed a hand up to his ear and pitching his voice higher to mock yell over an imaginary crowd.

She clicked her tongue and tried not to smile, catching on.

Content with the outcome of his teasing he could still hear the lowered music subtly. “What was that?”

“Oh…ah…a little guilty pleasure of mine.” she laughed nervously, “I’ll just turn tha-“ she started to turn the dial to zero.

“It sounds nice, were they singing Hamlet?” It wasn’t too wild a concept, humans have been so inventive with the retelling of the Bard’s work.

He watched her as apprehension and excitement to share something personal washed over her. Fidgeting in her seat she fussed at some lint on the dashboard, “Yes, and no…”

Yes, by now they had gone on a few ‘lunch dates’ and messaged the other frequently. Yes, he was aware at how she viewed him slightly with rosy tinted glasses as some who are interested in starting something new do (himself included on this regard). Yes she sought him out with her her concerns with Jim (which he more than willingly listened to). Yes, there was this - well tension that keeps rearing itself between them of. Be that as it may, and as unabashedly blunt with her feelings as she can be, there is bound to be resistance. Especially in the tactical game of just how much and how fast one wanted to reveal parts of themselves. There was still so much to learn about Barbara, and as much as he wanted to know more about her - it wasn’t a knowledge that can or should be stolen. So he offered,

“Bunnies.”

Barbara’s hand lowered, staring with perplexity as the high school principle with an English accent sitting next to her said- and she repeated, “Bunnies?”

“Well rabbits really…” he clarified feeling his ears slowly warming, “my favorite book of all time is about rabbits - a group of rabbits, doing their best.” he wondered if he was mirroring the same apprehensive excitement she had shown earlier. He started to push back the cuticles of his thumb with his other thumb.

He stared at her while she racked her mind through how many rabbit books there could be. “Peter Rabbit?” she guessed.

This warranted a smile, “Close. Watership Down.”

She nodded politely with an, “Oh?” her creased face relaxing as she leaned to the side of her seat with interest, “Never read it personally…I think Jim was going to over the Summer…don’t think he did either.” she added conversationally.

“You don’t say? Well…it is a bit tricky to get into, I suppose. I think my favorite part of it all - despite the immersive writing and rich lore - is the fact that the whole book originated from car ride stories the author would tell his children on road trips. He wouldn’t have even considered writing it if they didn’t insist he do so. And here we are with a bouncing epic! Its astounding how stories can just evolve in such a way. The simple act of choosing to write something can change everything surrounding a story.”

“Alright,” she said enjoying the enthusiasm in his eyes, “I’m sold.” switching gears in her car and starting their ride, “I’ll have to give it a read sometime.” he wondered if she meant it. It felt like she did at least.

The unexpected fondness of a part of one’s self being shared through what they enjoyed hit the changeling hard. It was, a strange personal feeling, like being exposed yet happy to wait under the magnifying glass. Or maybe he was thinking too much into it.

They drove for a while, Walter as co-pilot helpfully giving directions to their intended ‘field trip’ destination. In comfortable silence he listened to the hum of the car, watched the human world outside pass by, the start of the setting sun casting a tint in some shop windows.

“Hair.” went Barbara breaking the silence.

It was now Walter’s turn to look at the doctor beside him with a perplexed gaze, “Its the title of the musical I was listening to.”

“As in Hamlet is Hairy?” Walter guessed. Despite his collected culture, opera was more Nomura’s thing, and perhaps by extension musicals? He’d have to ask-

This brought a sad thought, and he tried to push the image of Nomura in the Darklands away. Barbara’s giggle helped.

“Not really…but that could be one synopsis for it. Specifically its called ‘Hair the American Tribal Love-Rock Musical’.” she ended with a self conscious laugh.

“That’s quite the mouth full of a title.” he commented with an aim for levitivity.

“I like to - well who doesn’t, but ah sing along…I mean I can think of a few people actually, but um there are worse pleasures out there to be guilty about.” she defended.

Walter could think of several. She continued, “It reminds me of…well, my time in high school and undergrad.”

“I didn’t know you performed.”

She practically cackled while pushing up her glasses, “Me?? Could you imagine?”

He could as a mental image of her belting - what was it that Miss Janeth kept pestering him to listen to? Ham tilton? No, it was history based, American, economics…Hamilton. Yes, Hamilton…a mental image of Barbara dressed in revolutionary blues belting an ‘A’ on stage came to mind. (Much to the annoyance of Miss Janeth he never did find the time to listen to it - so the image was pure speculation).

“No, no, no,” she rectified, “I was in set design, painting the backgrounds, and props…but gosh it was nice to listen to!” her gaze on the road looked dreamy with memories, “From my last few years of High School to my early undergrad years so many many songs, stories, _drama_. It was nice, like peaking into this secret world, and as close to theater life as I ever got.”

Walter hummed beside her, “Sounds like a fun time-”

“It was chaos Walt, like herding cats.” it was the way she said it that made Walter’s head turn to study her face, only to see a mad grin that expressed the exhilaration that despite the chaos, she wouldn’t want it any other way.

“I think you and Miss Janeth would have a lot to talk about.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but I did enjoy the outcome of Romeo and Juliet - whoever designed that set did a top notch quality job, so many flowers…Jim was really good too.”

“It’s a pity I couldn’t see it.”

In a bitter sweet way she added, “A pity…the sword fight scenes were good too…top notch, all around.” while wishing the performance wasn’t tinted with her and Jim’s hospital argument. 

They reached a stop sign, and Barbara leaned back in her seat, adjusting her glasses. A silence was settling, and not the most settling kind. Bringing him to say,

“Did you take lessons in painting?”

“The few classes the high school and university offered, and some art history in undergrad, but my main focus was always medical.”

He nodded in understanding before saying, “I’m rusty in musicals, but what other productions were you part of? If you don’t mind me asking.” he quickly added.

“Not at all, turn right here, right?” she pointed ahead, clearing her throat.

“Right.”

“Right, so High School I was only part of two productions; Music Man, and Fiddler on the Roof - we reused some of the sets, mainly the fences- had them painted over, few livestock…we _did_ have to re-build a few sheep, someone didn’t call ‘striking’ when removing a ladder and well…it didn’t end well.” she shook her head and tutted, recalling an old joke, “those innocent sheep. The AD was _not_ pleased. Oh Gale what a wail.”

“Did she yell a lo-?”

“She yelled _a lot_.” she affirmed quickly glancing at him with emphasis before placing her attention back on the road.

“Oof.” he added, smile growing on his face.

It was a joy watching Barbara slowly become more animated as she talked about her painting passion and adventures in the otherworldly circle of theater. The all nighters, the painting parties, the hours of discourse with the director and stage manager, the disagreements and agreements on what was and wasn’t feasible, and the effort of improvising when budgets were low. Although he didn’t always grasp what she was referencing, or know what musical she was talking about, he pushed on ever the good listener not daring to interrupt Barbara’s flow.

“How can someone lose a shaving knife 3 times? Honestly by the end of the run everyone was starting to think he stole the prop…unsurprising, but it turned out he was having secret meetings with the head of the prop department.” she gave a suggested look with her eyes.

“No!”

She gave a solemn nod, “Explained so much. And good gravy if I have to paint a pie again it’ll be too soon.” she finished shaking her head, “And then there’s Hair.” she let a sigh out of mixed emotions, settling her back into the car seat as they reached a slow halt on the road.

“The last show I worked on before school was getting a little too hard to juggle through.”

“I see.” he mentally imagined a younger Barbara with paint on her face rushing from the theater department to the next anatomy lesson across campus.

“It was a blast. The story was great albeit of the time, but the core essence?” She looked at Walter with her best hippie impression, “Groovy.”

Walter had to pinch his nose from snorting a laugh. Barbara was quite pleased with this outcome, beaming. Sadly the cars in front were slowly coming to a stop on the highway.

The outlook Walter had in mind wasn’t significantly far away, granted, but a quick curved route through the highway tended to be a fast way of getting there. Unfortunately he didn’t plan on construction.

Barbara’s stomach gave a slight gurgle, she pretended not to hear it while saying, “Aw drat.”

“Why don’t we start with a bit of an appetizer?” Walter suggested turning in his seat.

“I doubt the traffic is that bad.”

“No - but a chip or two will do no harm either.” she heard from behind, procuring a dip as well from his basket.

He heard her stomach again, the car moved ever so slightly forward, and stopped again, “Well…if you insist.”

The sun was low, closer to the horizon now as they shared chips and dip between the car’s stops and go-s.

“So, what is Hair about? I can’t get the fact they were singing Hamlet out of my mind.”

“Would you like to hear it?”

He nodded, and she turned up the volume from zero, by now the musical’s finale ‘Flesh Failures’ was playing (the original Broadway Cast Recording, specifically).

_We starve, look at one another short of breath / Walking proudl-_

She turned it down again to zero, though it looked like it pained her to do so. Walter guessed it must have been a good song. She pressed the track back a few times to what Walter dubbed ‘the Hamlet Song’ when an idea came over Barbara, “Ah - actually…why don’t I tell you a quick synopsis first? Help get some context…it’s hard to grasp the plot with just the songs.”

If it meant watching Barbara light up while talking about it, he couldn’t think of a reason not to. Walter motioned her to continue.

It took a good portion of waiting through traffic and getting passed the construction to listen to the story of Hair. In many ways he was right about associating the musical to the indecisive Dane.

The musical, which was very much a product of its time, consisted of two acts and centered around a group of friends who live quite the Bohemian lifestyle while protesting the Vietnam war and advocating for Civil Rights.

“It follows Claude, Berger, Sheila - who have an alluded to polyamorous relationship going on, Hud, Woof, Crissy, and Jeannie.”

“I thought you said it was an ensemble piece.”

“Well it is, but those are the principle roles.”

“Ah.” he nods.

Thus went on her synopsis describing how Claude, their pacifistic leader would lead the group and perform skits and sketches poking fun and satirizing the socio-political environment of 60’s conservative America which would lead into songs. The first act, albeit rather lighthearted is given a dark shadow by the form of Claude passing his physical and being given his draft card. Shenanigans ensue while Claude agonizes over what to do, and the act ends in the mist of a Be-In with the men of the group burning their draft cards (a then criminal offense) Claude is the last of the group to put forth his card above the fire…and refuses to burn his card. Claude is left alone onstage, almost invisible to his friends singing about how lost he feels and not knowing where to go from that point on, as the rest of his tribe return nude to the stage for all the audience (and world) to see.

Within the second act things get darker - much like the night’s ride as Walter and Barbara finally reach their destination.

By now Walter was pretty captivated with the story, and prompted Barbara to continue while passing her some water and setting up what was to be an evening picnic with a view of Arcadia. Amused by Walter’s fascinated expression Barbara continued.

As stated previously, the second act things get darker. Claude returns from the induction center while trying less extreme methods of not being shipped off to war, Berger gives his best friend a joint laced with hallucinogen which bleeds into a trip of meshing colors filled with ghosts of Claude’s inner turmoil of what to do, and being sent to Vietnam juxtaposing the war’s growing casualties with the country’s efforts to gain media support while also referencing the fight for Civil Rights.

“And everyone on stage is on the ground looking dead, and that’s when Claude and Berger - in the production I painted for at least - sing the duet version of What a Piece of Work is Man.”

“How noble in reason.” nodded Walter opening one of the wine bottles, pouring her and himself a glass. There air cooling with the lowering sun.

“From there everyone kind of wake’s from the floor and - thank you - start to come down from the high. Claude is still filled with doubts, but he knows he doesn’t want to keep living his life this way. Even if that means going to do the very thing he and his friends were protesting against this whole time. As a tribe they enjoy one last moment of - just being together, and start dancing with the audience, and Claude is the last one on stage…there’s a light change and everyone dreamily starts saying silent goodbyes to him, one by one…Berger is the last one to give his..all this is a symbol of him going to war, and” Barbara exhales through her nose, “This part gets me every time. Claude is alone on stage, and starts reciting his social number, and as he’s trying to sing Claude is just shot over and over again - but he keeps trying to sing and he keeps getting shot, until he’s on his knees, and falls back - dead.”

Walter lowered his glass from his mouth, staring at her narrative dramatics. Barbara continues, “So a protest starts on stage and around the audience - though set outside an induction center shouting ‘Boom boom beep beep oongawa flower power! Hell no we won’t go! Hell no we won’t go! Do not enter induction center!’ Berger Sheila and the rest plan on using the protest to hijack Claude away while he’s on leave so he won’t have to go back. Sheila and Berger are confused why he never shows up ‘he should be here by now!’ they say.

“But Claude’s dead, you see…so he never comes no matter how many times they call his name- except in ghost form dressed in his military uniform. They call one last time and he salutes and answers ‘here sir!’. And that’s when he starts singing Flesh Failures center stage. During a break in the song he goes ‘Berger, it feels like I’ve died.’ Berger and Sheila keep calling ‘Where are you Claude!’…’they don’t hear his responses and by the time Claude is scream singing,” Barbara lifted a hand up dramatically to the sky, “That’s me! That’s me!’ the whole cast is blocking him from the audience and he’s just disappears behind them. Everyone finishes the song he started, this mounting chorus of Let the Sun Shine In bleeds through and when the stage is cleared Claude is revealed on a black cloth with Berger and Sheila mourning over him.”

Walter leaned forward anticipating more. Barbara content, sips her drink watching him wait for a ‘more’ that wasn’t coming. “Thats it.” she finally says.

“That’s how it ends?”

She nods with a slow growing smile and Walter leaned back letting the story soak in.

“You’re quite the story teller Dr. Lake,” he complimented, “Thank you for taking the time to tell me this - Hairy Tale.” Barbara pretended to not be amused, lifting her glass in ‘you’re welcome’ as Walter continued, “are you sure you never performed?”

“My only performance is in the ER.” she bantered back, she raised her free hand fingers spread and shaking. “Granted it can be harrowing.”

“So I’ve been told.”

A mutual fit of laughter ensues, and as it sinks back to silence Barbara overlooks the view of a slow glowing Arcadia. The trees would rustle pleasantly with the coming wind, bringing tell tale smells of potential rain. The earth beneath their blankets still felt warm, the grass sweet. Their meal featured a few rye sandwiches of cheese, tomato, and bresaola accompanied with a pasta salad of zucchini, light olive oil, olives, pepper, and mozzarella. He soon realized how rather Italian the meal was, and cracked a joke that he promised it shouldn’t cause indigestion,

“Not enough garlic to do so.”

Conversationally they took a break from musicals and theater and discussed other frivolous topics that brought warmth, and smiles, and more wine.

It was upon finishing their first bottle, their meal more than finished, and Arcadia glowing in the valley like a collection of lightning bugs with hues of pale yellows and reds, that Barbara got up and managed to walk a straight line to the car. Walter watched her saunter while collecting some of the trash, a hum in his throat when he heard the car start for a moment.

He thought the worst, and quickly turned around to see Barbara sitting in the driver’s seat- door open. Collecting himself, Walter walked over and leaned on the roof of the car, looking down at his rosy cheeked companion who was slowly cranking up the dial.

“Walt…” she looked up grinning, the intro to a song playing with chimes and languid guitars, a tasty bass line starting, “..Walt.” she repeated.

“Yes?”

“Quick - ask me what my sign is.”

A low laugh escaped in the form of uneven exhales through his nose.

“Quick!” she said in earnest, racing against the started song. Those deep blue eyes wide.

He humored her and leaned lower, “What’s your sign, Barbara?”

She shot her hand out in response, and waited for him to take it - she didn’t have to wait long, and let the lyrics of ‘Aquarius’ answer for her, mouthing along.

Thus these two rosy cheeked fools danced to the blared soundtrack of Hair, with all of Arcadia as their backdrop.

They pulled all the 60’s/early 70’s dance moves, though incredibly awkward at first - to which they mutually agreed on how to use the second bottle of wine and loosened right on up. (some dance moves used included, and not limited to: the twist, the monkey, the swim, the mashed potato, and the duck)

During the title song ‘Hair’ the two were sauced enough to become ever so loose with their dancing, going so far as to toss and run fingers through the other’s hair. At one point in the song Walter noticed Barbara trying to step up to the hood of her car, he beelined with a helping hand.

“Oh say can you see my eyes, if you can - then my hair is too short!” she cried for all to hear before hopping down with barely any weight on Walter’s hand while doing so.

There was a thankful break of high energy songs when Easy to Be Hard came on. Oozing into a slow dance that, through sweat and wine turned more into a panted sway to catch their breath. There was a tender moment, within a shared gaze, where it felt as though either of them could say something. Instead they swayed within the anticipation of waited word, saying nothing.

During the musical rift of Be-In Barbara pushed her unruly hair back, “So remember the draft card bit- that happens now, and everyone in the group -burp- excuse me.”

“How dare you.” He smiled in mocked offense, Barbara swatted a hand at him - not falling for it.

“Shh! I’ll loose my train…of thought…where was I?”

“Grand Central Station?”

“Walt!”

“I couldn’t help myself, sorry, draft cards.”

She clapped her hands, forgiving him instantly, “Right! They read the back of the cards, saying its a crime, before everyone burns it - except Claude.”

“Except Claude.” he nodded, “You’re not going to pull a full monty on me are you?” he teased remembering what happens next in the musical.

Barbara however, took the joke in her current naiveté as seriousness. Biting her lip self consciously, “I’d…well…as much as…I mean I even did a…” a quick inhale before she blurted, “I’d like to take things slow.”

Walter was easily floored by the turn of events. The redness in his cheeks trailing up to his ears for reasons aside from wine. They sort of stared wide eyed at one another, Walter realized he should probably say something.

Instead they started stammering at the same time.

“I, of course- I mean, I didn’t mean to-“

“-It’s been a long time, and-“

“-likewise!”

“-really want this to work, but I’m just-”

“-scared out of my wits, I haven’t done something like this in-“

“-so long! You’re great I just need-“

“-As much time as you need!”

“I don’t want you to think I’m leading you on or anything!”

“Barbara you are within your right to refuse or accept at anytime.”

“Yeah - I _know_ , but-”

“It’ll be honored no matter what.”

“That’s not what I’m saying…I’m more worried you can’t handle the wait, I mean if you can’t you can’t- your loss…but I…” Walter quieted himself, “I really hope you can handle it, that it’d be something you’re okay with.” Her eyes studied him now, searching for any trace of resistance or red flag on the matter, hoping not to find anything in the man she was currently invested in. None showed itself.

“By the hanging gardens of Babylon, Barbara you are worth the wait.” she kept staring, “Yes, it is very much something I’m okay with.”

The way she exhaled a smile with such alleviation and contentedness brought a nagging tug of concern in him. Just what past bedfellows did this glorious woman have?

“So…yeah, slow.”

“Glacial even.” he affirmed.

“And whatever happens…”

“Happens.”

Her smile only grew as they shared a tender look.

Slightly sobered up, and a little more at peace with their standings, the two began cleaning up their picnic area, relocating the basket to the back of Barbara’s car. They left the music on, and decided to relocate to sitting on the hood of Barbara’s car in peace. The air was cooling, and despite Barbara’s attempt at concealing a shiver, he offered her his jacket that she gladly accepted. From there lackadaisical conversation was had, though a new twinkle in their eyes.

“So yeah, leave it to a bunch of med students to come up with such a nerdy group costume.”

“Honestly.” said the very nerdy historian teasingly, she grinned knowingly and clicked her tongue. “But which body parts, specifically?”

“Well, Anna went as the intestines, Zach - the more herbally medicated of the bunch, as lung cancer, and yours truly as a liver, and very much on its way to failing.” she added with mirth.

“The three horsemen of the hangover!” he merrily laughed.

“Exactly!” her eyes dancing with the chime of her laugh.

“Please,” he said between an escaped snort, “Please tell me there is a photo.”

“ _Photos_.” she corrected, before letting out a gasp and whispering, “This song…my favorite lyric is coming up.” her voice hushed.

Adjusting the jacket over her shoulders she leaned a bit to the side his way. A dewy silence draping over them as Walking in Space floated through the air. It was a soft airy piece from what Walter was registering, but his main focus was peaking a look at Barbara. Her eyes closed as if the passing breeze that grazed over them was one with the music, giving her a caress. The way her lips folded against her hidden teeth as her smile stretched. The bit of mascara that now ghosted the corners of her lids. The way her humming vibrated off her and against him. Radiant.

_On a rocket to The Fourth Dimension / Total self awareness, the intention_

Her eyes fluttered open suddenly, her finger pointing to the wind as if it itself carried the lyrics she mentioned. They arrived with timber.

_My mind is as clear as country air_

He realized he was being stared at now, how long was he consolidating the possibility that a human could catch starlight in their eyes? He felt her hand sneak up the side of his face, fingers dancing the line of his chin, into his hairline, and through the now unruly grooves of his dismantled pompadour.

_I feel my flesh, all colors mesh_

They mutually gravitated closer, and closer, and…

What was more psychedelic between the music change and the synapsis firing with news that their lips made contact, one couldn’t say. Though if Walter Strickler was asked, without question it’d be Barbara’s kiss and her mouth watering lips. Was there ever more a more marvelous set of human lips?

Together their hands would dance and snake about, seeking the balm of starved affection, and finding it in the other’s embrace.

Despite the rising heat and panted short breaths of air, neither of them really left the realm of tenderness and kisses. Unable to stop tracing and re-tracing the spine, a gentle squeeze of the forearm and side, the wrapping and unwrapping as if it were up to them to find and discover different ways of embracing and being embraced. Even if that meant Walter’s jacket being forgotten and sliding down the hood of the car. Slowly they leaned back into one another, rocking in their fondness.Just before their tempo could pick up and lead elsewhere, it was Walter who pulled away to gaze up at Barbara. Studying every inch of her rosy face. How when smiling one lip would curl higher than the other, a ghost of a dimple. How her hair draped past her shoulders while stray strands would get caught in the frames of her lopsided glasses, and stick to her lips.

Walter lifted a hand to move her hair from her face, struggling a bit with the strand caught in the bend of her frames. Barbara shifted her weight to give a helping hand, smiling smiling smiling. Their breathy exhales turned to champaign laughs expelling the rest of their tension. Barbara descended into Walter’s arms, their laughter bubbling and tickling the other’s collarbone and neck.

They stayed spooning face to face, he pressed his forehead to hers, listening and humming together. By the time the finale of the musical rolled around, Walter couldn’t be happier that he asked about the musical, that he was able to learn and embrace more, of the curious and ever human glory of Barbara.

 

Apparition de L’Oiseau de Feu   
[Coda / Remix]

 

Walter Strickler was speeding down the road using a goblin commandeered car. It was late enough at night to be a little risky, of the police, as he drifted through a left turn. 

With the use of the Inferna Copula he could tell Angor Rot and Giselle were having a confrontation. Having met or not (or will meet?) Angor had his orders, and Strickler wasn’t going to risk him taking advantage of his orders. Who had the advantage was unknown as he dared not look for too long while driving (one damaged car a day was quite enough, thank you). He debated with himself on who would come out on top, the devil he knew or…

The thief did say they would meet again at the canals…could this mean Angor will fall by her hands?

Mist slowly began to rise as cool rain beat against the still warmed cement of a day full of California sun. The new moisture on the cement made it easy to slide down the side of the canal. It’ll be a while before the river’s water level will rise.

The croak of a raven followed Strickler as Angor Rot and the thief fought under the bridge, the mist making it hard to see clearly. Another croak and the thief looked in Strickler’s direction before returning to the fight, and…did Angor Rot look as well? The circling raven made for a dive. Strickler’s shoes stamped along, he could feel his hand about to clench into a fist.

When did the mist get so thick?

_Singing our space songs on a spider web sitar_

Of all the times to hesitate. It happened so fast.

Angor Rot’s Shadow Staff went into the thief with a twist. Strickler could hear her hollow gasp from where he was.

“What are you doing?!” Strickler barked, clenching his fist tightly. Angor Rot fell to his knee in pain, though not without putting his falling weight into the thief with the use of the Shadow Staff

“These weren’t my orders!” he spat rounding on his assassin, “Maim, collect, not…” He broke off at the sound of Giselle’s wheezing. The rain wasn’t letting up, nor was this mist. The Shadow Staff sticking out from her stomach like a large pin in a small pin cushion.

_‘Life is around you and in you’_

“Ooi hehe te lo detto, _pirla_.” she gave a grim smile, with the weather what it was, it gave the impression mist was rising from between her teeth. “Do you believe me now?”

Strickler’s brows furrowed, he gave no answer to the dying form before him.

The circling raven above them continued to swoop down, its talons aimed towards Angor Rot who had trouble batting it away (as Strickler’s fist was still quite clenched).

“Mamma mia che testa -cough- duro come le rocce.”***** she said to no one, perhaps the raven, but it was still too busy with Angor Rot.

Strickler bent down, taking a knee beside her.

“This wasn’t supposed to be this way, I had ord-“

“I understand.” she nodded sympathetically with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, “Though you’ll face the consequences all the same. I’ll just be more-”

“STRICKLER!”

The voice carried through the falling rain from behind.

_Answer for Timothy Leary, deary._

It was Jim, in full armor exiting Trollmarket, Daylight in hand. Claire and Toby gasping behind him. Strickler’s eyes shot wide with degradation. He could only imagine what the teen thought this all looked like. There wasn’t much to imagine. It was an outright murder.

Strickler never heard the thief’s last breath. He did hear the whizzing of Daylight being flung in his direction, the croaking of the raven as it landed a hit on Angor Rot.

_Let the sun shine,_

Strickler purposely blinked slowly, as if waiting for it to land, but the strike never came.

There was a hum of Daylight right beside him however, off if not by several inches. His gaunt face reflected blue in the weapon’s glow. Strickler relaxed his hands, releasing Angor Rot from his pained state. The raven returned to circling above.

_Let the sunshine in,_

Jim called back Daylight with an outstretched hand, shaking in an anger that was understandable. Its not as though Jim could touch him, or risk hurting him.

“Jim.” came Claire’s voice of reason, trying to pull Jim back into the safety of Trollmarket, “Jim lets go.” she casted a weary eye on Angor Rot, and the impaled Shadow Staff in the…

_The sun shine in._

“Jimbo look!” Toby called pointing to the staff, but Jim had already flung Daylight a second time, this time landing just in front Strickler.

Strickler got to his feet, and the three of them looked at the staff, the body it was impaled in - gone. There was only more billowing mist.

Angor Rot didn’t move or look.

“Well don’t just stand there!” snarled Strickler, eye’s glowing yellow through the rain, (though it was unclear as to who he was snarling at).

While Angor Rot dashed forward to attack, Jim recalled Daylight as Claire and Toby pulled him back within the confines of Trollmarket. The entrance sealing just in time before Angor Rot could land a strike with his blade. The wall sparked with contact. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *(Oh what is there to wait..I’m here you’re here) 
> 
> **(but in the end I am always Without Name - though used here as if it were a name, much like Captain Nemo - whose name means: nothing)
> 
> ***(Alas! When its like this, I want to help - ‘this’ referring to how bad the situation is) 
> 
> ****(Arrivederla: Goodbye - formal / In bocca al lupo: an Italian idiom to the equivalent of break a leg, the literal translation being: jump into the mouth of the wolf  
> The response ‘Crepi’ (drop dead-slang) or rather the full response being ‘Crepi il lupo’ being the typical response to the idiom translating to : and may the wolf die. Both are commonly used)
> 
> ***** ( Ooi hehe what did I tell you, pirla. [pirla is a northern dialect slang, meaning: stupid - or in a more vulgar fashion: dickhead]  
> Mamma Mia what a head -cough- hard like the rocks)


	4. Chœur des Soldats / Man or Muppet / OP. 87 Waltz - Coda + Op. 87 Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- Bada, grillaccio del mal'augurio! ... se mi monta la bizza, guai a te!  
> \- Povero Pinocchio: mi fai proprio compassione!  
> \- Perché ti faccio compassione?  
> \- Perché sei un burattino e, quel che è peggio, perché hai la testa di legno.  
> A queste ultime parole, Pinocchio saltò su tutt'infuriato e preso di sul banco un martello di legno, lo scagliò contro il Grillo-parlante.  
> \- Le Avventure di Pinocchio, C. Collodi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Be warned, ugly cricket of my temper! If you make me angry, you'll be sorry!  
> \- Poor Pinocchio: I feel such pity for you!  
> \- Why do I make you feel pity?  
> \- Because you are a burattino and, what's worse, you have a head of wood.  
> At these last words, Pinocchio jumped in a fury, took a wooden hammer from the bench, and threw it with all his strength against the Talking Cricket.  
> \- The Adventures of Pinocchio, C. Collodi / translated.

ACT I  
[Continued]  
Chœur des Soldats

 

              1033-ish, Somewhere in the Holy Roman Empire

 

“Dead.” went Otto, stepping into the creaking half burnt farmhouse. The smell of charcoal and blood thick in the air, “All of them. Including the ch-”

“-I know…look at what they painted.” Stricklander kept his focus on the musty illuminated manuscript in front of him. One of the few remnants of the family that used to be. Their land now generously used for the glory of Gunmar.

“Its nice.” Otto said with little sentimentality.

“How pitiful. Shame.” he said matter of factly, “Do you think it was a hobby or was he commissioned?”

“Come Stricklander, you’ll get into a mood if you keep staring.”

Neither of them moved. An amicable silence followed. The dust and ash floated through the air and space between them. A bit of sun poured through the gaps of the roof, and a hole in the wall that might have been a window at some point.

There was little movement to be heard outside, aside from fellow half-breeds in the distance that were prepping the plot of land with tents and cots.

“Do you ever…” Otto paused, testing the atmosphere, planning his following words, “do you ever wonder about our troll families? Our real ones?”

“Now who’s in a mood.” noted Stricklander, not maliciously. He moved his attention to passing his hand through the sunlight.

Otto went on, “Do you think they ever reconciled about having lost us? Did they wonder, when whispers of changelings started, ‘that could be my child?’”

Stricklander listened with no comment, it was rare for Otto to show this side of himself, he rarely showed any side of himself except what he wanted others to see. Otto picked up the bottom end of a charred carved toy that might have been a wooden horse.

“Did they recoil in shame at the thought of their child _becoming_ one of us, or did they become sympathizers to Gunmar’s cause because of their loss? Were they shunned and cast out because their failure to keep us safe is what made another soldier for Gunmar, or could it be because they didn’t spit far enough when saying ‘ _impure_ ’?”

“Enough Otto.” he turned facing his comrade - and closest thing to a friend a changeling could have - to Otto, moving away from the light in the process. The polymorph’s form wavered, no longer thinking out loud, and running circles in his mind. Stricklander sighed, “You’ll lose yourself if you keep thinking this way. I understand your curiosities, believe me, but if we start fixating on those questions we’ll find ourselves on the other side of Bular’s chopping block.”

“We’re already dancing around it simply by being.” Otto muttered bitterly, struggling to keep a steady form.

“This is true.” Stricklander placed a hand on where a shoulder would be, “Which is why we should never waver from Gunmar’s words, but be vigilant, and keep our wits about us. Those troll families lost any and all right to us the instant we were snatched away. We are Morgana’s urchin now, and as long as there is sunlight and her words whispering through us, we will endure.”

“You are right my friend..” a hollow laugh escaping Otto, his form more stabilized.

“As always.” Stricklander shrugged with a dry smile.

“…but I do wonder where that half-breed patriotism will get you.”

“Patriotism?” he repeated, trying not to enjoy the word in the entirety of its syllables, “No, my friend, in a world bent on hating you one must learn to love oneself…and more importantly,” he ran a finger through the ash, “let it go, and stay alive.”

 

            Present Day

 

After the night’s rain the air that turned muggy was dry by morning. Dawning another unabashedly sunny California day. It practically mocked the tone in Strickler’s office.

Otto’s visit was unprompted and without prior warning, (aside from a hunch Otto would try something the day Zurougia mentioned his absence) which was smart of Otto - yes, but a thorn at Strickler’s side. Janus was not aware of Giselle, nor of Angor’s insubordination the previous night. To top it off, Angor Rot had no reason not to boast about it aside from the Inferna Copula on Strickler’s finger. All the same, the tension was there.

Though Angor Rot leaving to deal with Jim did help a little. It was only the two of them in his office now.

“Mad as a bicycle.” said Strickler with a slight groan.

“Curious choice of words.” said Otto dancing his fingers over his knuckles.

“Get on with it.” went Strickler, massaging his temple and contemplating between tylenol or ibuprofen.

Otto gave one of his strange giggles that carried more nerves than humor. “How Angor called them ‘your friends’.”

“Juxtaposed to him openly plotting to remove my finger, you mean.”

“People have played the piano with less.” he tapped the mentioned instrument, before peering over his glasses at Strickler, (who decided on tylenol), “Which only underlines my point, mein freund.” 

Strickler clicked his tongue after dry swallowing two pills. Otto’s head sank between his shoulders some, but his eyes held a sternness in them.

It wasn’t obvious from the look of Otto these days, now a shadow of what was (albeit a formidable and terrifying shadow), but der vielgesichtige Tod - or many-faced Death was still there and Strickler was no fool to underestimate him.

“You know very well he’s only trying to get a rise out of me - and you. Learn something to use against me. As if that isn’t already a casual stroll through the Janus lobby.”

Otto didn’t seem moved or humored by these words, instead he approached Strickler’s desk. His voice lower as if the decor of Strickler’s office could listen in and betray them, “Stricklander, I say this now as a freund and confidant. Abandon this path. I- I fear it-”

“This path?” Strickler cut in, “Its the same path we’ve been on since the beginning.”

“Something is different…if only-“ Otto’s fingers fidgeted with his hat now.

“ _Yes_ something is _different_ ; we’re no longer babysitting a temperamental blood thirsty mountain with the social graces of a latrine. _Yes_ something is different; the great rocky scavenger hunt is over, and we’re now in the ironic position of stopping it from being used by children-”

“That you can’t even bring yourself to kill.”

“-Who killed Bular - hence the assassin, we’ve been over this Otto!”

“-and you expect to rule _die Welt_ now?”

“I _expect_ to further our kin!”

Otto stared at Strickler for a while, Strickler wished for once he could be easy to read - he never was. Otto returned his hat to his head in a solemn way, and looked at the map behind Strickler filled with little red dots and movement plans. It was a good plan…too good, a dream that could never-

Almost wistfully Otto took a few steps back, “I will return to the Order, they’ll be expecting me, and my report.”

“Otto…” Strickler began, his voice reached out slightly docile. The two stared. Strickler exhaled slowly through his nose, “We’re in a uniquely new position now that can really do us good. I know our brethren are disillusioned that centuries of building a bridge turned to rubble - despite the sacrifices, and your sacrifices-“

“This isn’t about the Sol-Iletsk prison.” Otto snapped, in a way that suggested to Strickler perhaps it was…if only a little.

Otto’s time there before the second world war breaking out being an absolute tragedy…the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong impersonation…organizing his ‘escape’ was a nightmare, and being there…well…Strickler dared not imagine.

“You’re right…” Strickler admitted, bowing his head some, “none of this is about anything in the past…” he looked up again, “its time to move forward…we can admit we deserve better, we’ve always deserved better.”

Otto gave a bitter laugh and adjusted his glasses. This impasse the two had reached was getting them nowhere, and they’ll soon start circling back again.

“Ja..ja, I will be taking my leave now. You’ll hear from the Order soon.” Otto sharply clicked his heels and bowed slightly, Strickler bowed his head cordially in return. Making for the door Otto stopped briefly, hand on the door knob, he turned, “This path you’re walking mein freund…” Otto looked over the office as if some of the decor had the words he was looking for, “…be careful.”

And with that Otto left Strickler to his devices again.

Changelings, half-breeds, impures, however they’re called are in many ways like sharks…constantly in need of movement or at risk of facing the deadly consequences (though for sharks it is more for a physical attribute, with half-breeds; mental). How many changelings did Walter Strickler know slowly deteriorate and go mad because they fixated on their situation and station for too long? Too many. Enough for other changelings to give the act of stagnation a name; Welling*. A maddening mentally crippling state that made the brain go foggy, a sort of dissociation that hovered and lasted and impeded on activities. Which for changelings could mean life or death - or it did, for if Strickler’s plans for the improvement of half-breeds was a success, maybe there will be less cases of Welling.

Stricklander prided himself on his ability to bounce back, yes there were moments bouncing back wasn’t as easy as other times he managed-he had to self preservation demanded it…but now, alone in his office (as Fargwa slunk away ages ago) he felt the room was darker, his thoughts his contradictions all the louder. The curious thing is that since Bular’s absence it was as if his mind kept trying to halt him, after so many years of not letting it stay still. He felt his eyes glazing, and the concept of time passing was slowly being erased. What he had been calling the maelstrom he realize now was more dreadful; the first stages of Welling…probably. Perhaps not, maybe he’s in denial- or…lets think about it some other time. 

With a big inhale, as if remembering what breathing was like, Stricklander looked at the ceiling and sighed until all the air was out of his lungs. Leaning forward he rested his elbows on his desk and folded his hands to lean his head against.

Rubbing his still aching temples against his knuckles before running a hand through his hair, “Le Fay on the wind. Good grief.” he half groaned.

He turned and closed the entrance to his inner office, then Strickler casted a side eye towards his office’s piano. Deciding best to focus on something and use his hands, Strickler shuffled over to the piano.

Nothing overly extravagant; he did a few scales, did variations with the scales combining old hums and songs he didn’t remember from where he heard them, which eventually transformed into a few favorite George Gershwin riffs. He then moved on to a lazy variation of ‘Tango Till They’re Sore’ by Tom Waits, going off a vague memory of the tune. Sometimes humming the tune to remind himself of the notes, going by ear. Backtracking, starting again.

The change of focus helped, as by then he was so focused he didn’t hear Miss Janeth outside his door knocking while going,

“Moses supposes his toeses are roses, but Moses supposes erroneously!” he _did_ notice his office door opening, and the whirlwind that was Miss Janeth that semi twirled in, “Principal Strickler! He knowses his toeses aren’t roses, as Moses supposes his toeses to be!”

“Am I having a stroke?” he asked her with sincerity as if she were part of some mental fabrication.

“A stroke of genius!” came Miss Janeth’s dramatic response as she pushed a very real flyer into Strickler’s hand.

“Happens to the best of us I suppose.” was his wry response looking the flyer over. Three people with their arms hooked together with yellow raincoats under umbrellas in the rain.

“I wasn’t expecting you’d be in at this hour, but when I heard those ivories I knew I had my chance!”

“Yes, well…how may I help Miss Janeth?”

“I wanted to proposition a musical as the drama department’s next performance! I mean it was already propositioned with Principal Levit, and he was half way through the paperwork…I’m not sure if it got lost with the red tape, all the same! A rose is a rose! A nose is a nose!”

“A toese is a toese?” he guessed handing the flyer back to her.

“Hupidubidu!” she confirmed in a sing song voice.

“Miss Janeth if you start dancing on my desk you’re fired.” he warned in dry amusement. “Now I’ll see if I can drum up that paperwork, but all things considered I don’t see why the production shouldn't be okayed.”

“Oh good! It was either that or Peter Pan.”

“ _Peter Pan_?” he repeated, unintentionally sounding offended.

“This is infinitely better though,” she went on not noticing his tone, “we already started table reads in the drama club - as practice, no one is casted yet, but I’d like to hold auditions, spread out the possibility to the whole school!”

Strickler nodded, closed the lid on the piano and placed the piano stool in front of his desk for Miss Janeth to sit.

Wait till Barbara hears of this.

 

Man or Muppet

 

“Walter you shouldn’t have!” she was pulling an orange raspberry scone from a paper bag. Together they sat in the shade of one of the hospitals outside tables. 

“Well when you mentioned your break I thought me coming here would mean you’d get a longer break…” he reasoned. They were considerably alone, aside from those passing few getting to point a to point b, and perchance a family of three…no four he corrected at the sound of a toddler laughing. A thought suddenly occurred to Walter, “I didn’t mean to over step any bounds - and you probably would have wanted a change of scenery I-“

“No - stop,” she half laughed a hand on his arm, sincerity in those magnetic eyes, “I mean it, thank you. It was a great surprise - and last time I checked most people don’t give a heads up when they’re going to surprise you.” she countered.

“Oh good, I thought the rules changed. I missed the last ‘most people’ meeting you know.”

Barbara rolled her eyes trying not to smile, “I’m surprised how fast it took. Did you fly to get here or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous Barbara.” he snorted passing her, her coffee, “I’m barely aerodynamic enough, the hair you know.” he gave his head a stiff wiggle.

“Oooh” she went taking the coffee with a nod, “and here I’d guess it’d be the shoulders.” she quipped with a nudge, though not without adding, “But I thought your car was in the shop.”

“Ah, well the damages weren't all that bad; half a day’s work and a night’s rest and the old jalopy is back in business.”

Barbara hummed into her scone. Strickler forced himself to appraise the handwriting of his supposed name on his drink, rather than how Barbara’s cheeks puffed a little while biting, the crumbs that would linger near her chin, the fake obsidian of her earrings that daintily contrasted with her pale complexion and lab coat.

“So ‘Singing in the Rain’ hm?”

“Hm? Oh - yes. Though there might be some trouble with the copyright, I suggested perhaps a name change and maybe change the script around a pinch.” he shrugged, “Save the school a bit of money.”

“Hmm…like Stomping in the Rain?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, Gene Kelly is known for his tap dancing…which is kind of rhythmic stomping in itself.”

Walter blinked like most did when someone mentions a name that ought to be familiar, but couldn’t quite place a face to it. So this is what that feels like.

“Are you saying you’ve never seen Singing in the Rain??”

“I didn’t say anything.” he defended before adding, “Are _you_ _sure_ you never wanted to be the person _on_ the stage-?”

“Don’t change the subject!” he could see her biting the inside of her cheek to not smirk, “You’ve never seen Singing in the Rain?! It’s a classic.”

Walter racked his brain mid-bite into his own scone.

“What were you living under a rock?” she gently laughed, though not maliciously.

 _Collecting them actually_ , he thought before quipping, “Do I _look_ like a pilgrim accused of witchcraft?”

“I’m just teasing.” she eased popping a bit of broken off scone in her mouth casually, “there’s nothing wrong with not having seen it…I mean there are so many movies out there to begin with..”

“I have seen bits! Long sweeping shots of Paris, right?”

Barbara wheezed, “I mean you got the right actor, but that’s An American in Paris.”

“Oh…no _wonder_ I didn’t recognize what Miss Janeth was going on about when she entered my office, wrong bloody movie.” he guffawed, only to cough a bit as some scone crumbs tickled his throat.

Barbara motioned her hand as if about to hit his back, Walter’s brows popped up with a sharp inhale, which intern caused him to cough even more. Fervently Walter shook his hand in protest while scooting away and reaching for his coffee with the other hand.

“I’m fine, fine!…Headache.” he explained between coughs and sips.

Barbara’s expression was hard to read, her open hand closed and started to move away, before changing direction to rub Walter’s back.

It was so gentle, as was her voice, “Walt…you don’t slap someone who’s choking on the back.” she explained.

How could he have forgot? Especially considering he was sitting next to a doctor, on Hospital grounds no less. It was just an impulse assumption, and he couldn’t risk it with the spell.

Sheepishly Walter smiled.

“Do you need some ibuprofen?”

He cleared his throat and said, “I took some tylenol earlier.”

Her hand was still tenderly on his back, but her brow pinched critically, “How long?”

“A few hours give or take.” the truth slipped out so easily it shocked him.

“That’s not…is this a frequent thing?”

“Well-“ Walter Strickler had to stop himself from answering suddenly aware of being medically examined. This wouldn’t do, quickly he used chuckles to guise his nervous realization, “Barbara I don’t-“ but then, oh…the way she looked at him. The kind of look of someone who was tired of being pushed away from helping the ones she cared about. Strickler gulped at the idea that he could be one of those lucky considered.

“It isn’t a frequent thing.” he lied in an assuring tone, “just a hungry headache really.”

Her face softened, “One: you shouldn’t take tylenol without eating something- its a blood thiner, and two: when was the last time you had some water?”

Walter looked at his coffee, “Uhhh….”

Wordlessly Barbara passed him her thermos.

“Cheers.” was his awkward thanks, ears turning pink as he realized her hand was still on his back.

He shouldn’t be here…he should be looking for Giselle’s bird friend, Jim could be dead by now, if Otto saw this it’d only help further his arguments, he shouldn’t be here…he could feel his eyes glazing…

“Walt.” the hand on his back now moved to his oh so easily injured shoulder, he _really_ shouldn’t be here…

“Walter?”

“Hm?”

“You’re not going to drink?”

He blinked and looked at the thermos, it was yellow with little bees all over it, he smiled, “Ah. Just admiring.” before taking a deep drink. 

While he drank he couldn’t help but wonder if Barbara felt his headaches…perhaps because it wasn’t someone physically hitting him, but he did physically feel the mental headache. How curious. Though spells were about specificity.

The croak of a raven came so close, so sudden almost at their ears as a flutter of inky black wings followed; it made the two of them jump, gasp, and Walter to choke again. That awkward uncomfortable water lump forming.

At once his head was pushed down knee level, which kept his larynx open, “Drain it out.” he heard Barbara say, still a little breathy with the corvid surprise.

“It’s official.” he deadpanned to the now wet ground, mortified, “I forgot how to be human.”

“Doubtful. Geeze Hitchcock had a point, freaking came out of nowhere.” graciously he realized she wasn’t looking at him. After a few deep breaths he realized she was rubbing his back again. He also realized his scone had rolled away from him, and was now being pecked at by the ravenous culprit. Giselle was right aboutAaron being troublesome.

“You good?”

“Better now, ah..” he thought about apologizing for making her work on her break, but had a feeling she wouldn’t hear it, and instead said, “thank you.”

“Here Mr. Headache,” she passed him the rest of her scone, he opened his mouth to debate, but was cut off by her counseling “Chew, swallow, _then_ comment.”

How could he not smile? Relenting he took the bit of her scone, and the two sat peacefully while eyeing the corvid. In that silence Walter Strickler wondered about Giselle and her supposed…death? disappearance? If when he met her she knew what was to happen, did that mean in some future moment he’ll meet a version of the thief that needed to be told all of this? Won’t that be a headache of a venture.

“Buggery thing, isn’t it?” he commented as the bird lifted its head to easily guzzle a large piece of the scone. He wondered if it was on purpose.

Barbara gave an amused shrug, her eyes a little more studious.

“Are…are you going to draw it?” he heard himself ask.

“W-wha?” she sputtered, taken aback by how genuinely fascinated he was. Her cheeks now a little red, “On what?”

Walter pointed to the used little brown paper bag.

“Pfff.” her cheeks puffed looking upwards, patting her coat for a pen, “I left my pen insi-“

Fascination getting ahold of him like a child impatient to see magic performed, Walter grabbed a pen from - no not that one, the other one, from his inner jacket. Now his turn to wordlessly pass something to her. Barbara looks from Walter to the pen then back at Walter in a very, ‘that’s not how art works’ sort of way.

“We could play a few rounds of hangman.” he remedied, ears turning pink.

“I’d like that.”

‘Pneumonia’ ‘Visigoths’ ‘spatula’ and ‘spinning top’ were a few examples of words used, discovered, and lost. Eventually Barbara had to return to work, she thanked him for the surprise and snack, though not without commenting that using Latin is cheating, “I was sure to win!”

“I know, and when I looked at you, it was the only word I could think of.”

“A-huh.” she collected her thermos, cheeks puffing a bit, a quick glance at the word in question: perrārus. “and it means what exactly?” she smirked.

With a slight wrist twirl and flourish, Walter bowed and took her hand, giving one of his departing kisses on it. She could feel his breath on her knuckles as he said, like some debonair rogue, “Rare, exceptional.”

He felt her hand curl around his, like someone holding on to keep from leaning back too far. The wider he smiled, the tighter her grip became, her cheeks deepening in hue. She started to give a breathy laugh, before letting go of his hand and adjusting her glasses.

“Still…cheating.”

Walter gave a remorseless shrug, unable to stop smiling.

As he watched her float away he picked up the used paper bag, looking at it in its entirety. Quite pleased with himself.

He noticed little tiny scribbles on Barbara’s side of the bag that she used, and upon closer inspection noticed little basic shapes and figures. Little idle doodles while waiting between word choices and letters. 

One of which was a soft circle with an upside down triangle for a mouth and angry eyes - who Walter guessed was the bird, and a well dressed stick figure titled ‘Principal Stickman’. Ripping the bag to keep the doodle he placed it in his inner jacket pocket, the raven on the other hand beat its wings and started to preen, a hooked talon still on the stolen scone.

“So.” he started eyeing the bird, “What now, hm?”

The raven kept preening, until noticing a passing bug of some sort.

“Aaron was it?” continued Walter, sitting back down and leaning forward. He searched for any signs of intelligence aside from usual bird functions. The bird was now pecking at the ground, the bug crawling aimlessly away. “…I’m, I’m sorry about your friend - or nemesis…either way you were close in someway. I apologize.”

Unsuccessful in catching the bug the raven rediscovered the scone and started pecking at it.

“Yes well, I hope the mourning process isn’t too long.” he sighed dryly, a hand through his pompadour. The raven kept considering the scone, eyeing it sideways with stiff head jerks. “Would you please get on with it. Did you come here to show me something? Go on then ‘Lassie’, Giselle in a well?”

With a quick jerk, the raven’s eye fell in a deadlock stare at him. Somehow the half-breed felt studied.

“Well??” he repeated, hiding his self conscious surprise in frustrated temper.

The raven beat its wings again, hopped in place before taking off towards Strickler. Its talons chuffing his hair in the process.

“Bloody—” ducked Strickler, already searching for his keys. He kept his eyes skyward as he raced to his car.

The bird circling above with its croaking shrieks. Cursing under his breath Walter snapped the car door shut. Buckled himself and started the car.

As fast as a Hospital parking lot would allow Strickler left the premises. His eyes going from road to bird above. The raven would occasionally swoop low, and in a moment he thought he lost sight of the bird and the direction it was going; a plop of bird excrement on his windshield would tell him otherwise.

“Oh joy.”

 

At the end of the chase Walter Strickler found himself pulling into the empty parking lot of the Coppélius Dance Studio. All save for one mimosa yellow mini cooper. Strickler narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Something didn’t feel right. The building’s lights were off, it felt empty, deserted, quiet.

The closing of his car door harmonized with the croaked call of the raven. Strickler had to avoid another bird dropping, this time aimed for his shoulder rather than car.

Looking up he hissed, “Do you mind??”

The raven didn’t answer, but a feather floated away from the bird, as it fluttered its wings to perch on the mini cooper. Perhaps it was the ominous air, but something possessed Walter to pick up the feather. Holding it as he walked towards the door. He peered through the glass window, but couldn’t see to well. Then he tried the door.

It was unlocked, and the smell inside was ghastly. He turned to eye the raven one last time, but it wasn’t there.

“Wonderful.” he muttered, raising his turtleneck collar over his mouth and nose, Strickler stepped inside into what was most undoubtably a trap.

There was smoke that much was sure, enough to billow about his ankles and make his eyes water. The furniture all seemed to be in the same placement as the last time he visited the studio. Strickler stepped closer to the classroom, pushing the already open door a little wider. It too was empty. With only framed pictures of past recitals and performances, along with an artistic rendering of Baryshnikov. He could feel his ears physically trying to stretch to catch a sound of anything; footsteps, whispers, movement of objects. Nothing.

He reached into his jacket for his pen just in case someone got the drop on hi-

 

OP. 87 Waltz - Coda + Op. 87 Midnight

 

He realized the following very slowly: his turtle neck was no longer over his nose and mouth, the room was considerably darker meaning it was perhaps night, he was on the ground, his head hurt…oh Le Fey! What about Barbara?! This icy thought seized the changeling in such a way, already feeling his thoughts might start circling him like vultures. No, don’t think about that now, focus Stricklander. Focus or you’ll start Welling.

He coughed and tried to wave the smoke away, but just felt so…heavy, he was barely able to lift his hand. With considerable effort he was able to check if he still had his pen - no not that one, the _other_ one…yes _good_. The feather however, was no longer in his possession. A low rumble of a growl escaped him, his face scowling as he was barely able to sit up on his elbows. He tried to change to his troll form, but the energy just wasn’t there.

“Oohohooo” came an ironic laugh, “Ma guarda chi ha finalmente svegliato!”**it reminded Strickler of snake scales sliding over each other, cold.

Strickler blinked through the smoke, trying to find the source of the voice, instead he saw bundles of some sort of wheat grass burning next to the classroom mirrors. Was the building being hotboxed?

He tried to formulate words, but his mouth felt so dry, his tongue fuzzy.

His head lolled onto his shoulder in an attempt to look to the side.

“Over here, caro.” said the familiar voice. Strickler lolled to the other shoulder.

And there she was, diaphanous and billowing through and within the smoke. A rolled up something bobbing on her lips, as she twirled the raven feather casually in her fingers. Giselle glided through the smoke, and Strickler could swear a part of her trailed behind like smoke only to catch up to her when she stopped moving.

“you…”

“Yes, me, dearie.” she smiled a sort of smile that was similar to the way a smile used to mean - the barring of teeth.

“I…ttthhhoou”

“Thought Angor killed me? His mistake was the same as yours-“ she explained with eerie kindness. Strickler kept slowly trying to sit up, it felt like the only thing he could do.

“But enough about me.” Giselle placed the raven feather behind her ear, and casually started to apply lipstick. Strickler fumbled the pen out of its cap and palmed it under his sleeve.

“This is about you, or _a_ you, ah! but here I go speaking in riddles again -no? How frustrating it is to not be able to speak freely, and clearly…or act how one wants, and wishes…but these are things I’m sure you understand - no? _Changeling_.”

Strickler’s breathing was getting heavy, his head felt like ice cubes were melting down his skull through his hairline. A low rumble of a growl falling out of his mouth.

“You and I are quite simpatico on this matter, as you’ll come to find..”

Strickler was close to sitting fully upright now, his head lolling forward, chin on his chest. Fingers threaded his hair and lifted his head up, he felt like he was going to vomit, “Ah-ah” tutted Giselle now squatting over him, “but not like this…no..” she looked him over shaking her head, the hand rolled cigarette bobbing on her freshly lipstick applied lips, “..not like this, when we are simpatico a different half-breed will be before me.” letting go of his hair she slapped the side of his face patronizingly, “Non questo burattino di fronte a me.”***

Strickler snarled, eyes glowing, and with all the little strength he had left plunged his weaponized pen into Giselle’s side. 

She wheezed, but the pen’s edge only grazed her, his hand caught.

Her laughter was far from comforting, “That is more like it! Oh but you still have so far to go, but this is where I come in to help.” easily she stole his changeling pen from his hand, looked through his pockets to cap it and place it in his inner pocket. She eyed him and he swore her eyes blinked sideways like a serpent.

“Waah- wahye.”

“What? Why? You’ll have to be a little more specific.” she grinned enjoying the show of his struggle.

He licked his lips between growls and snarls, vocals unsure what language to respond in.

Her patience lasted only so long, thus Giselle cut in, pinching his chin to steady his face, “We all have our curses Stricklander, mine is a snake, yours a mountain. I’m not here to give you all the answers, I am here to repay a debt. Despite the years, I remember your sacrifice. And despite the time I arrived here, I’m not blind to see that you still need some pushing. Whether the push is from me or elsewhere, I don’t know…but in good conscious I can’t repay my debt without some words of advice.”

Strickler’s head struggled to stay upright despite Giselle’s hold, his breathing heavy with just trying to stay afloat.

“Stricklander listen to me, and I’m very serious when I say this. Either kill the cricket, or move on.”

Morality from Pinocchio? That didn’t even make sense. In what felt like slow motion his brows furrowed, until she let go of his chin, his head dropping back down to his chest.

“Good, now you think on those words, take with it what you want, assign the metaphorical talking cricket to be anything you like: your doubts, Jim, Otto, Barb” Strickler made a poor attempt to bite Giselle, she pushed his head back with ease continuing, “-I don’t care…Finalmente I will fulfill my debt.” by the time his head lolled onto his shoulder to see her, Giselle was placing the raven feather inside a little brown leather pouch.

“In a time where you have reached your lowest, in a time of grave desperation, brandish forth this pouch and its contents within, and like the Firebird and her magic feather, I shall come to your aide.” she tightly tied the string of the pouch and grabbed Strickler’s hand. Hovering the purse over it she stared at him seriously. “Do you understand?”

Strickler’s mouth lolled, his brow furrowed, for whatever reason Strickler nodded.

“Say it.” she ordered, “Accipis?”

Strickler eyed her, growls slowly falling out of his mouth while trying to form the words. With the rest of his strength he tried to straighten his head as well. All the while digesting this mad turn of events. It was, well -mad. Why should he believe all this, how could this _not_ be some sort of trick? It bothered him greatly that she knew of Otto, and more so of Jim, and she had already mentioned Barbara when they first met (despite it being in riddles). This was a horrible situation to put it incredibly lightly. And yet, despite it all, O Le Fey on the wind help us all!

“Accipis?” Giselle repeated sternly.

“Ha - ah“ came his groggy voice, trying to form the words with his mouth. He used everything to fix his now glowing eyes on her, the glow from his eyes reflected and illuminated onto the billowing smoke in front of him eerily, “Accipio.” he managed to rasp. ****

The weight of the leather pouch was heavier than he thought it would be, it tingled in his palm slightly. In fact the weight of it caused his raised hand to lower onto his lap. He struggled to put it away.

“Good…good” she said, helping to place the pouch inside his jacket. She leaned back and bounced the hand rolled cigarette on her lips, swirling it so the lipstick would stain its end before lighting it. She inhaled deeply.

“Nnn-now..” started Strickler.

The inhale didn’t reach her own lungs, quickly ejecting the smoke into Strickler’s face…it had a distinctly different smell then the room, and it certainly wasn’t a tobacco. Whatever it was, was foreign and reminded him of…pixies?

“Now take this hit.” said Giselle, forcing it into his mouth and pinching his nose. “Deep breath, let it sit - sit, sit still!” Strickler struggled as best he could, but there is only so much a half-breed could do when straddled with barely any remaining motor functions and a pinched nose and mouth. He breathed in the strange pixie like herb.

“Good, let it sit in your lungs, and…one more.”

How many times he went through this smoking routine he was unsure, by the third he felt as though he was submerged underwater. At some point he was back on the floor, head lolled to the side.

From the mirror he could see Angor Rot standing there. Giselle was walking to him with a bag full of moving things. They discussed, and clasped hands. To which Giselle passed the bag to Angor Rot and…they started to melt like wax, everything was melting like wax, he even felt like wax. The world and everything and everyone in it were but wax figurines, all to be melted away someday. But oh! how he wished-

And then the world went black.

Let me fall out of the window with confetti in my hair  
Deal out Jacks or better on a blanket by the stairs  
I'll tell you all my secrets, but I lie about my past  
So send me off to bed for evermore

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *(Welling: To dig a hole for one’s self, or slowly descending into a well of constant inner turmoil or juxtaposition. A heightened state of anxiety that may or may not cripple one’s actions. 
> 
> Sentence Example in the context of Gone With the Wind: I can’t think about that right now. If I do I’ll start Welling. I’ll think about it tomorrow. // it is a term of my own invention similar to going ‘Tharn’ in Watership Down - but cranked up to 11)
> 
> **(But look who has finally woken up!)
> 
> ***(Not this marionette in front of me.)
> 
> ****(Latin: Accipis - you accept // Accipio - I accept )
> 
> *****( end bit lyrics to 'Tango Till They're Sore' by Tom Waits )


	5. Sinnerman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tripping gronk-nuks  
> Or Waltolomew Stricklander's bad(?) high

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter highly influenced by Nina Simone's Sinnerman

ACT I  
[Continued]  
Sinnerman

 

When Walter Strickler finally came to, he was still on the ground of the dance studio’s classroom. The room itself was brighter, better lit, and the air….smelled of nothing - interesting. Strickler tested moving his hands, and his toes in his shoes before rolling to the side with a slight groan.

_Stricklander_

He rubbed his head and looked around.

“Ooh welcome back, you’ve been stone cold for a while there.” fluttered Giselle’s voice before returning to her humming, not looking up from the CD cases she had in hand.

“Giselle…you…” something seemed different in the way the thief moved, but he didn’t linger too long on it as anger and frustration quickly took hold of him upon trying to remember the last thing he saw before conking out, “You! You and Angor Rot! Conspired against me!”

“Conspired is such a dirty word.” said Giselle, making a selection at last, “He wanted to kill me, well ‘take me in’ by your orders, and instead I made myself worth while.” she poignantly looked at Strickler while inserting the CD, “ _You_ understand. I’m sure.”

Strickler’s eyes glowed while he barred his teeth at her. Giselle remained unaffected, while skipping to the track she was looking for. Strickler got up to his feet, wobbled some, and marched in her direction.

“Come, come Stricklander hypocrisy isn’t a good look on you…ah here it is!” finally finding the track before Strickler rounded on her grabbing her by her shirt collar. Her white hair falling past her shoulders, her back hitting against the mirrors roughly.

“Now, easy there..” she managed to smile up at him, hands slightly raised with a wince.

“I don’t know what deprives me of the pleasure of snapping your neck like a twig - you have any ideas under your bonnet?”

A piano was starting to play on the track, and the studio seemed to come alive with Giselle’s spreading smile. Her eyes twinkling maliciously.

“Well, I’d say you have bigger problems to worry about than me, and roughly 10 minutes and 21 seconds to solve them.”

“What?!” he snarled.

“20 seconds and counting down…how’s your hand again?”

Strickler blanched as he looked down at his hand, the Inferna Copula wasn’t there. Oh infernal Darklands, but if Angor Rot wasn’t here already ripping him apart then…Strickler’s eyes stopped glowing as thoughts of Barbara and Jim came to mind. 

“Ahimè! You better hurry.” she poked his nose, “Spit-spot.”

Unblinkingly Strickler slid his hands away from his hold on Giselle, and backed away slowly, his mind racing. Meanwhile there’s a crescendo in the piano, with inauspiciously fast cymbals, much like Strickler’s own heartbeat.

“But uh,” she giggled as if possessing the power to break the 4th wall and see into the joke the writer had planned to make and said, “where you gonna run to?”

Walter Strickler’s eyes flashed yellow, as a trail of green flashed and followed behind him while running out the door. A base line in the music starting, and his wings spread wide it even made the raven on the mini cooper flutter airborne in surprise.

As the hospital is closer he’ll fly there in search of Barbara, then the two of them can use her car in search for Jim. Jim will be fine, he’s dealt with Angor multiple times.

_Did he survive?_

Though what about an Angor Rot with his soul? No, he’ll be fine, he believes in Jim.

His train of thought was interrupted by a blaring car horn in the dance studio parking lot. When did that get there?

“Otto!” Strickler cried, relieved to see his dear friend.

 

~Well I run to the rock~

 

He ran to the side door window that was lowering.

“Otto! Pale Lady be praised! Quick I need your help!”

“It certainly looks like it mein Freund-“

Strickler interjected before he could say more, “I need you to drive around Arcadia, see if you can spot Jim before I can. Angor Rot is loose! You were right! About Angor at least, not everything else. I can’t control him, but I do have everything else under control. You have my cel, if you get to Jim before I get to Barbara - I mean I doubt it, I’m going to fly to the hospital now - but if you do give me a ring and we’ll rendezvous with you. ”

Otto let out a long whistle and shook his head, “Das ist eine komplizierte-“ *

“Please Otto I _beg_ of you! Jim will be able to help us, and we’ll be able to help him! But I need to get to Barbara before-”

Otto’s cold laugh cut Strickler off, his eyes glowing.

“Mein Freund, you’re under the impression I’m here to help you.” casually Otto leaned towards Strickler reaching his hand out to patronizingly tap the side of his face, “I’m not going to help you.”

Strickler grabbed Otto’s wrist pulling it slightly away from his face with a dumbstruck stare, “What…Otto, what’s the matter with you, Otto?”

“The matter with _me_? What’s the matter with _you_! Gunmar’s famous aide-de-camp reduced to _this_ \- this Welling fleshbag loving fool! Ever since Bular’s death you’ve been fraying - like you need someone to tell you what to do, someone to plot and conspire against - when all you have is yourself, and your self destruction. What’s a revolutionary when there’s no one to raise arms against anymore? A fool.” Otto spat out his side of the window and turned back to Strickler, “ _Face the facts_. Impures are made to serve, and when there is no one _to_ serve, we go drunk mad.”

Strickler grew very quiet, and let his hold on Otto slip away. As hurt as he felt he couldn’t bring himself to contradict his oldest friend. Maybe he had a point, maybe…Strickler looked up to the sky as if a contradiction would find itself there in the inky black space void. Where were the stars? Ah, but stars shone for the lucky few who-

_Stricklander_

“Get in the car Stricklander.”

He closed his eyes to the sky and lowered his head. But perhaps starlight shown elsewhere, starlight could be found - if she’ll have him - starlight in the eyes of a blue eyed beauty, a regular modern day Clara Barton.

“No.” he firmly said, his eyes glowing back at Otto, “If you’re not going to help me, then what will you do?”

Despite the hurt on Otto’s face, the polymorph half-breed shrugged as calm as can be, “tell you, you have already wasted a minute and six seconds talking to me, I suppose.” and then Otto turned wistfully away in disappointment. Unable to watch as Strickler took flight.

 

~So I run to the river~

 

While soaring Strickler continuously dipped and turned, keeping his eyes pealed for any sign of-

Angor Rot was portal-ing in front and slightly above him, at an angle where gravity would let Angor fall onto Strickler with his blade. Together they collided, the blade making contact into his weak shoulder - why was it always that arm??

Spinning downward in the air Strickler struggled to get Angor off of him, keening his head back so his horns would spear him. He tumbled in the air, to shake Angor off, but the blade slipped down his shoulder more, tearing deeper. Angor used its hilt as a hold not to fall. Strickler hissed in pain, and despite of it started rolling in the air as fast as he could in hopes it would fling Angor off.

It worked, but the blade was still stuck in his shoulder, and the mixture of pain and dizziness sent Strickler falling through several trees and onto the street.

Somehow the street was empty, save for a single light heading towards him.

But lo!

How painfully fortuitous!

“Jim!” he cried, while holding his shoulder and staggering into the light of the incoming vespa. “Jim wait- stop!”

Jim steered to the side into a halt, “What is it Mr. Strickler?”

Something felt off, but Strickler pressed on. “We need to go to your mother!”

“My mother?” Jim blinked before gasping and pointing at his shoulder, “Golly Mr. Strickler! You okay?”

“ _Golly_?” Strickler did a double take at the sudden uncharacteristic way Jim was acting. This was odd, beyond odd something was definitely off.

“Jim will you snap out of it! We need to save your mothe-“the dawning realization that he had sustained damage and attack that was undoubtedly felt by Barbara as well hit Strickler so hard he might as well fall out of the sky all over again.

OH WOE

Focus Strickler, focus!

“Mr. Strickler? What about my mother?” he heard Jim ask.

Turning to face the adolescent, Strickler gasped in shock and morbid horror seeing him. As all the scrapes, bruises, cuts, and battle inflicted damage the poor boy ever sustained manifested on the poor Young Atlas all at once.

“Gee Mr. Strickler…you don’t look so good.” said Jim, oblivious to his own damage, “how can I help?”

“B-by not helping, Jim.” he said slowly, sadly, “you’ve…you’ve done more than enough.” Strickler extended a paternal hand to his shoulder, ever so gently on the off chance the boy felt pain. Nothing. Perhaps it was an illusion.

“Mr. Strickler are you okay?”

He gave a hollow laugh, “Yes..I’m, I’m fine Jim…and…I’m sorry. I hope you can hear how sorry I am under whatever simpleton spell you’re under…”

Jim blinked up at his ex-teacher, and shrugged as if the apology meant nothing.

“I’m going to take you to your mother, alright?”

“If you say so Mr. Strickler.”

“I won’t ask much of you Jim, just hold on tight…can you do that for me?” Strickler crouched, bending on a knee with open arms, and wings spread.

“Wilickers!” Jim stepped back some at the sight of his wings, before walking into Strickler’s arms and wrapping his arms around his neck, “I didn’t know you had wings.”

“Yes, well, mind the dagger won’t you?” Strickler said before kicking off the ground and heading skyward again.

 

Whatever strange witchcraft was about, he’ll get to the bottom of it, and then there will be hell. In the meantime, Jim and Barbara will be priority number one. What strangeness has happened to the world?

 

~I run to the sea~

 

The hospital was closer than expected. Fortuitous yet again! Though for the sake of normalcy Strickler landed just outside the parking lot. Placing Jim back on the ground Strickler stepped back and changed into his human form, despite the dagger still in him.

“That looked painful.” noticed Jim.

“Happy to see your astuteness hasn’t left you…now come on.” went Strickler walking into the parking lot, he turned noticing Jim wasn’t following.

“Won’t the hospital notice?” asked Jim.

“Not if we don’t draw attention to it, now come on!” as if they wouldn't first notice the poor beaten and bloodied up youth before that. Strickler dreaded confronting Barbara.

Jim shrugged and jogged over to Strickler, falling in step with him as they hurried into the hospital.

Strangely, no one batted an eye. Everyone went about their business as usual. The doctors doctoring, the patients being sick, the visitors, visiting.

All the same, Strickler self consciously walked up to the receptionist.

“I’m looking for Dr. Barbara Lake, her so-”

“The elephant?” went the receptionist.

“ _No_ not _Babar_ -!”

“-My mom’s an elephant?”

“No! She’s…she’s…” he trailed off upon seeing her.

She was exiting from a room with clipboard in hand, dressed in knight’s armor. The chainmail glowing as if threaded by the very stars themselves. Strickler was at a loss for words.

“Mom!” called Jim running over to her as if this was normal every day attire for Jim to see, and giving her a bright big hug. His residual blood staining her armor some. Even if the boy didn’t feel the damage on him, it was clearly there, thought Strickler lessening his illusion theory. Then again Barbara was in armor, who’s to say what anymore.

“Why Jim! What brings you here?”

How was she not noticing the boy’s cuts and scrapes? How was she not feeling pain? Was the binding spell broken? He could feel his feet moving towards her.

“Mr. Strickler brought me.”

“Oh! Well,” her eyes were on him, and the motherly smile transformed into something soft, tender, better set for a low lit room and candle light, “hey there Walt.”

Strickler didn’t know whether to take a knee before her, or embrace her. If he kissed her, would he burst into flame? Exorcised like a demon before salt?

Instead he did neither, just smiled with an ache to cup her cheek, “Hullo Barbara.”

“- oh! You’re hurt.” she said taking a few steps closer.

“It’s nothing - really - actually your s-“ but she kept getting nearer, and in a way Strickler was afraid. Her hand reaching out cupping his face, “Barbara I don’t deser-“ his mouth was stopped by a kiss, a kiss so soft he wondered if she used starlight for chapstick as well - or was that just the makings of Barbara as a whole? All the same his stiffness was subdued, and upon daring to return the kiss she pulled the dagger out from him with ease. Strickler was surprised how painless it felt.

The deed done Barbara pulled away grinning like she did after making a clever medical joke. The dagger twirling in her hands much like how he had imagined how she would twirl a scalpel in a ‘drunken college days’ tale.

Pulling back he rolled his shoulder - nothing. Good as new in fact!

“Better?”

“Immensely!” he half laughed, opening and closing his right hand in awe “Thank you.”

She shrugged and rolled the blade in her hand as though it was nothing, his ears deepening from pink to red.

No this wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right.

“Barbara, your son-“ he started to point out. Surely that same magic can work on him - surely!! Administered differently, obviously.

“What about him?” she asked, oblivious. 

Strickler gawked like a fish out of water, was she making him say it? That her son has been badly hurt, that he’s been fighting, doing things no high schooler should have to do! Taken up a mantle and joined a war that’s been going on for centuries? That the monster passing off as Walter Strickler in front of her was one of the many causes to her son’s wounds?

“B-Barbara I- I don’t know how to tell you this…ah, he’s-“

“He’s not going to have to repeat a year is he?!” went Barbara while placing her hand on her cheek in surprise, as if this was the worst conclusion to jump to. “Jim we went over this!” she said turning to her son.

“Sorry mother.” he said sorrowfully looking up at her through a black eye.

“WHat - no! He doesn’t- sweet crust of the Earth.”

Unfortunately it would have to wait, as the hospital lights started to flicker on and off. Strickler’s gaze went upwards, and slid to every shadow in the vicinity suspiciously.

“I was trying so hard mother.” he heard Jim say pitifully.

“Jim you’re not going to repeat a year.” Consoled Strickler, albeit slightly distractedly.

The lights were flashing at a faster rate. Strickler started to hear sniffling.

“Oh honey, you’re not repeating a year.” came Barbara’s consoling voice.

The sniffles kept coming, dragging Strickler to look down at the little human.

“It’s not that…it’s…” Jim turned to Strickler, “am I going to have to fight?” all the sunburns and slurs in the world didn’t hurt as much as those sad words.

“No.” he said sternly, “You don’t have to fight, we’ll take care of this Jim. It’s going to be okay.” Seeing as how the night was going, Strickler changed forms - no one batted an eye, not even Barbara as he stretched his wings wide. “Barbara, get Jim between us…back to back,” his wings reached passed her shoulders, Jim cocooned in the middle, “together we’ll head to the parking lot.”

“You know this is kinda like how elephant herds protect their young.” came Jim’s voice. “Very protective circle-y.”

“Yes well, you can thank the receptionist, and the King of the Elephants for the idea.”

With a clamor the ceiling above clattered and broke as Angor Rot descended from a vent. A vent?! Hurriedly Strickler leaned back pushing Jim and subsequently Barbara out of the way and closer to the door.

“The car, go - go!”

_Through the back_

With a few flung blades and thrown chairs on his part, Strickler gave cover while Jim and Barbara ran out the front of the hospital. He doubted he could handle direct hand to hand combat, cured wound or not.

In an attempt to stop the barrage of blades Angor tried using a human bystander for a shield, it gave Strickler enough time to turn tale and run out the door.

Barbara fumbled with her keys pressing the emergency button trying to find her car.

“We can’t find the car.” said the ever astute Jim.

Without a word Strickler went up to the nearest car punched (with his stone fist) through the window and unlocked it, “Found one, get in.” They stared at him, as he changed back to his human form, “Think of it as commandeering now hurry! Walking feet!”

Fortune on their side again, the poor car owner left their keys in the ignition. The car sprung to life with a simple twist, and jerked forward only for Strickler to quickly break again, “Seat belts?”

“You steal a car, and you’re worried about seat belts?!” went Barbara sounding a little more like herself.

“Always - you don’t know how well I drive - I could be-”

“Drive now quip later!”

Tires spun as and smoke billowed and the car sped forward leaving skid marks behind them.

Strickler twisted and turned out of the parking lot, heading to the main road with Angor Rot hot on their trail.

There were a few instances when Angor got close, far too close for comfort, especially while using the Shadow Staff; portal-ing in front causing Strickler either to run through the troll, or drift throughdepending on the road. There was an instance where Angor was on the roof, only to be shaken off by a few donut maneuvers. Another instance of nearly hitting a tree, and narrowly making a left turn when there was a fork in the road. A different instance where Strickler drifted a turnonto a one way road, and sped through the medium to get to the other one way road while Barbara hummed some show tune (probably Greased Lighting).

“Barbara dear, please - _bullocks_ ” he swerved around a forgotten street cone, “not now.”

“Neat-o!” went an easily impressed Jim.

Honestly all it was missing was a bit where Strickler hides his car inside a passing nine wheeler truck, or better under it - and it could easily be a Smokey and the Bandit movie homage.

Strickler grunted taking a sharp left and eyed the sky and all the mirrors, while internally thanking his time spent attending a few Grand Prix races. Despite this Angor was catching on to his tricks, after all someone can be flung off a car only so many times.

 

~So I run to the Lord~

 

They were getting close to the highway now, and it should soon be dawn…hopefully. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, as though that would conjure up some more luck on their side…or maybe…if just this once, this _once_ …some divine intervention. Some whispered word of advice, or better, a bloody miracle.

 _O Pale Lady, Eldritch Queen, Le Fay on the Wind and Shadow…my Creator…my Maker - if you can pass a celebratory eye onto us to be in our favor. I, but a low impure - served you as best I could_ , went his thoughts.

Angor Rot was portal-ing in front of the car again, Strickler didn’t bat an eye and accelerated all the more, trance like.

“W-Walt.”

“Mr. Strickler?”

 _And I will continue to serve, till dust - but please, if I am to ask but a single boon_ , his thoughts continued, _let it be that-_

Strickler heard something, through the hum of the engine, and the sound of high speed driving, through the way the trees and everything outside the car would blur, and the tires spun on the road. Strickler heard; **_to serve me is to serve Gunmar as well, and since you have forsaken him - you forsake me._**

_We’ll find a way to release you still!_

**_You dare ask for my help in protecting the very thing I created my Champion to destroy?_ **

Strickler had no response to give.

 **_Go to the devil._ **

“Walter..”

The car was still accelerating, Angor Rot grinning as he gripped the Shadow Staff as if about to launch a javelin into the car.

“Walter please!”

_Some ice perhaps_

Strickler’s eyes fluttered and his vision was a little clearer - and in that moment of clarity he was able to spot the entrance ramp into the highway.

“Hang on!” he called, knowing they were already going too fast to make the turn. He hit the clutch hard, shifted gears, going into yet another drift, the side of the car scraping against the buffer of the highway ramp. Sparks flew as paint chipped metal skinned itself against cement, the side view mirror already a nub. The three of them vocalizing and screaming on different levels; Jim amusement, Barbara fear, Strickler frustration.

All the same they made it onto the highway.

 

~So I ran to the devil, he was waiting~

 

Though the strange thing about highways, they were usually better lit, and had more cars on them. There was not a soul on the road. Getting off the ramp Strickler glanced at the pair of them.

“Everyone alright?” he asked, each gasping or nervous laughing as the adrenaline was still-

“WALTER!” went Barbara.

Strickler looked back to the road as a figure stood in the middle of the highway under a sickly yellow light. Strickler hit the breaks fast, the tires skidding, the car swaying as they barely stopped in time.

Something in the pit of Strickler’s stomach made him wish they hadn’t.

For there under the pale light, caped with bladed feathers about the collar, gnarly underbite, and long unbroken ibex arching horns was-

_Stricklander_

He was staring at himself…and that feral self was walking closer, though once out of the spotlight of the highway light in the contours of being backlit and shadows the ibex horns changed to their more modern state. By impulse Strickler tried changing into his troll form, nothing happened.

“Shouldn’t we be driving?” he heard Barbara say.

Right. Strickler changed gears and started to accelerate towards the figure. Only for the imposing emerald troll to jump onto the car hood, denting it in the process.

The troll said something he couldn’t hear, as the three recoiled. Strickler searched for an impromptu weapon, but alas the mirror figure phased through the windshield and grabbed him by his turtle neck. No one moved.

Another thud was heard on the roof of the car, said roof quickly pierced by the dagger owned by Angor Rot. It moved in lines in an attempt to cut the roof out.

Barbara and Jim were frozen. The figure said something to Strickler, but alas he just couldn't hear it. Though there was a sort of finality to it. He could feel the vibrations of what would be vocalized words.

Releasing Strickler the figure phased back to the hood outside, the car still moving forward, and jumped to attack the Angor Rot on the roof of the car.

It was Jim that made Strickler aware that something had changed, “What the actual hell Strickler?!” Strickler glanced at the boy through the rearview mirror. He was no longer acting strange and in his Trollhunter armor, and in glancing at the boy through the mirror Strickler noticed himself to be in his troll form.

“Walter is that you?!?!” went Barbara, her words were like a slap in the face. He noticed she was no longer in armor, but her teal scrubs.

His response was silence, and pressing his foot down on the accelerator more. The trolls on the roof still dancing their fight.

“The hell is happening?!”

“What are you Walt? Why is my son in ARMOR?!”

“Lets get somewhere safe, and I promise I’ll explain everything then.” Angor’s dagger punctured the roof again, and Strickler swerved, “We’re not safe.”

“No shit!” went Jim.

“ _Language_!” Strickler and Barbara chimed.

“ _Merde_ then!”

“Points for wit, I suppose.”

Barbara gasped.

Jim rolled his eyes and attempted to open his passenger door, Strickler locked it.

“Are you kidding me dude?!”

“Wha- were you thinking of going out there?!” Barbara barked, “And do what?!”

“What I can, mom!” Jim went to unlock his side door, Strickler swerved in a way that would make Jim fall back. The trolls on the roof barely managed to hold on. He tried not to think who was winning. The highway itself was starting to rise up higher and higher, they must be reaching a hill…or bridge.

“Can this wait?!”

Though the more they drove on the highway the more Strickler noticed there weren't even signs or exits, were they stuck on the highway? How much gas was left in this thing? How much more damage can it take before falling apart?

Pillars were slowly rising on each side of the highway the closer they got to the supposed summit of the hill. The sound of Barbara and Jim arguing slowly drowned out by a piano solo and…applause? No rhythmic clapping, like a summons. As they drove on Strickler realized there were people on these pillars, no - fellow half-breeds some wearing their masks to conceal their faces, others not. They were clapping, and some were dancing.

The clouds in the sky were large and cumulous, yet instead of thunder and lightening within a giant green sky-encapsulating hand emerged from the clouds. It was like watching videos of large predatory animals emerge from hiding before it was too late.

It sent shivers down Strickler's spine, and electricity to his heart, and whats more - the hand spoke.

 

~I cried, Power~

 

The effect of these words were nothing like the fevered meanderings from before, no. This, he felt it in his horns and bones, was the real deal. Yet alas not even Her words came in clear, it was painful to the eardrums, like listening to an opera on a stereo with the base up to its maximum power. It felt like his ears would bleed.

Though the closer Her enormous hand descended, pointing down at the damaged car and its passengers, the more Strickler - though as painful as it was- was able to make out at least a part of Her words:

 

ạ̶̝̮̹͓̯̗m̫̻̦̹̯̬̀̀b̩̣̭͜͜͠ì̮̟̫̲̱͉̜t͖̘̺ͅi͚̱̫͖̫̼͖͘o̖͚͡ͅͅu̸̦͍͕͖͔̤̩͓s̪̩͎̯ ̴̦p̹̥̞̥͔̲̻͜ͅơ̡͖w͘҉̥̬̙̥e̢͓̝̠̤̲r͇͚̬̩̝ ͏̬̫̖̜͖̞̦͕-̘̗̙ ͖͓̙̻̮͠t̤̭̫̠h̶̥̘̝e̴̮̬̣ ̵̯͠k̷̞̞͕̼̜͕͉͖̖e̡̯̹͔͖̫̰̜̕y͍͍̙̲ ̶̡̱̝͎̖̯͢w̲͔̼͙͚i̷̟̟̯̤̬ͅḷ̴̦̳̤͇l͜͏̟̳̹͕̪͇̮ ̶̳̰̀b҉̗e̛̤͍̘͕̰̭̜͎͜ͅ ̸̡̬͈̼ṭ̶͟h̷̭̫̥̫̖̼͝͞ȩ̢̻̤̭̠̳̝̬

 

 

Maybe his ears were bleeding, all the same he was so encapsulated by his Maker, and rightfully so, that Strickler didn’t notice Otto in the middle of the highway launching water from a bucket at them.

The three of them screamed.

 _Das kind mit dem bade ausschütten._ **

* * *

 

It was actually Strickler who was screaming…in a cot, covered in ice water. Panicked breathing seized his throat as he jolted up with blurred vision that was slowly getting clearer. All the same he produced a blade unsure of what form to be in.

“Put that away! You’ve made enough of a fool out of yourself already.” snarled Otto’s voice while struggling to check his own volume.

This didn’t help Strickler’s nerves, and instead he flung the blade into the ground with a snarl of his own. Clasping his hands together he could feel that the Inferna Copula was still in his possession, good.

Sliding to the side of his cot, he gripped the edge and stared down until he could recognize his own feet. His heart rate steading Strickler passed a hand over his face with a groan.

“Have a good trip?” he heard Otto say with a light heartedness that betrayed a colder fury.

Strickler didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead he looked up, taking in the fact that there was not only Otto in the room but Karenna as well, who seemed a mixture of awed and frightened. Which meant he was within the Janus Order.

“To quote the famous historian Eddie Izzard, _quad_ the _fuck_.”

Karenna signed, " **Did you have a vision? The Pale Lady, what did she say?** "

Strickler went to open his mouth, blanched, and keened over to the side with a groan. Otto impatiently placed his hands in his pockets, and kicked the bucket he used to douse water on Strickler closer to his feet.

Needless to say, it was well used.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *(That is a very complicated- )
> 
> **(Throw the baby out with the bath water)
> 
> A short chapter I know, but honestly it made sense to me to post it on its own as oppose to having it be part of the previous, or next chapter. Think of it like a 'flow' choice, if that makes sense lol


	6. Pizzicato Polka / Tannhäuser Overture / Capricho Árabe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Look at this city.  
> Its prisons are crowded  
> with our friends.  
> I was with them just now  
> in my sleep.  
> They stand huddled together there and hear through  
> the windows the guards talking about executions.  
> They talk of people as gardeners  
> talk of leaves for burning.  
> Their names are crossed off  
> the top of a list...  
> ...and as the list grows shorter,  
> more names are added to the bottom.  
> I stood with them, and we waited  
> for our own names to be called.  
> Let us leave together  
> this very evening."  
> \- The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade, by Peter Weiss 
> 
> (aka: Marat/Sade )

ACT I  
[Continued]  
Pizzicato Polka

 

“ **Thank you.** ” signed Strickler as Karenna passed him a glass of water. Rinsing his mouth with it before spitting the remaining traces of vomit in the over used bucket. His tongue still felt fuzzy, but the world wasn’t spinning as much as before. In fact he was able to better understand what room within the Janus Order he was in; an overnight cot for those who were to work long shifts and would not manage to get home in time for proper sleep. From the look of the room, it seemed old. So, with as much dignity as someone can have after being found high out of their mind, Strickler dabbed the corners of his mouth and crossed his legs patiently.

“We found you,” started Otto.

“ **I.** ” signed Karenna behind Otto. Strickler casted a warning look at Karenna, as grateful as he was for the secretive correction Otto had great peripherals- and was still her superior, (he was amused all the same).

“in such a state it was shocking. I would have thought it was a Grave Sand overdose if it wasn’t for the fact you _weren’t_ trying to kill us.”

“ **Hard to tell** ,” Karenna started to sign, stepping forward for even Otto to see her hand movements now,“ **since the dance school was burning all around you.** ”

Strickler raised his brow and exhaled slowly through his nose, coughing some in the process, “Lets back track a little more then. Karenna, how were you near the dance school to begin with?”

Karenna’s hands hesitated for a second, a second too long for Otto -who was about to say something - that is if Strickler didn’t give him a cautioned look.

“Lets skip the one-up polka, shall we? Just the facts.” Strickler reprimanded before motioning for Karenna to continue.

Otto narrowed his eyes at Karenna suspiciously, she politely didn’t notice.

“ **I just finished meeting with Zurougia and was in the area when I swore I spotted Angor Rot. That’s when I noticed the smoke. Unsure if it was part of your plan, as Janus wasn’t notified of any sort of property damages that would happen in the area, I checked it out.** ”

“Did Angor Rot notice you?” asked Strickler.

Karenna shook her head, “ **He had no reason to, after all I was just another _human_ driving on the road.** ”

He nodded, and decided to refrain from asking any questions that might relate to the thief, for now.

“ **When I saw the smoking dance school, and your car parked outside - I contacted Otto.** ”

“By means of a very cryptic voice message of Karenna’s inner pocket, fire, and what I assumed was your wailing, Stricklander.”

“ **I called while running into the building.** ”

“Wailing?” Strickler leaned forward some.

Karenna shivered, “ **I wanted to be sure Otto believed me. A text wouldn’t do it justice. Plus with the voicemail recording I could use my hands to move you.** ”

“It was lucky I got it in time, otherwise we’d have a lot of explaining to the fire department to do.”

Triply so considering they were in California; where fire was already no laughing matter. The Coppélius Dance Studio sat in a confine not too heavily populated within Arcadia, and a lot of property for sale for new neighborhoods. Which was in their favor when it came to the reaction time of the fire department.

“I rushed over as fast as I could, placed you in my car.”

“ **And I hitched your car to my truck so it wouldn’t be left behind, and traced back to you.** ”

“Good good…and the recording?”

Otto pulled his phone from his pocket and placed the voicemail on speaker, and through the static of a phone moving in someone’s pocket and fire came a most horrid sound - sounds that couldn’t decide whether to be trollish or not;

_Armor-Barb-Back to Back- [gargling sounds]-Le Fay- Now-[more gargles]_

“ **It was ghastly, and to make those sounds while still as dirt!** ”

Strickler rubbed his face repressing a groan, he dared not imagine it.

“It lasted a good portion of the ride back to the Janus Order too.” Otto added with an uncomfortable giggle, “Though for obvious reasons we had to use the other entrance. Couldn’t let the whole of Janus see their _shrewd_ leader in such a state- can we mein Freund?”

“Indeed.” went Strickler thumbing his lower lip in thought. Still wanting to keep his own cards about that evening close to his chess he asked, “Anything in particular I was muttering on about?”

Karenna’s hands echoed through out the room with the intensity of her signing, “ **Muttering?! You were practically praying!** ”

“Praying?” he repeated out loud, unsure he read the sign correctly. Karenna nodded solemnly. Even Otto grew silent his gazed fixed on the used vomit bucket.

It was a very serious thing among half-breeds to invoke the name of the Pale Lady in means other than discourse, and passing Her words. She was as revered as She was feared, and much like how one might equally give gifts to an alter of a deity, it didn’t give that same person the rights to go about invoking Their name. Even mankind and their myths and fables understood that much. For there is power in names, and the naming of things. One of the reasons why half-breeds maintain the name of their familiars is for this very magical thing. Like carving a name into stone, the stone becomes alive as that name, and vise versa. Who they were before meant nothing - or so it was understood and told.

Thus, to give the semblance of praying, supplicating, invoking in a means beyond the casual ‘Pale Lady be praised!’ or ‘Le Fay on the Wind’, even entranced and high as Strickler was - was quite the serious thing. Serious as it tended to bring about chaotic events; a maddening coin flip of good or bad fortune - or so it was understood and told, (for all the changelings knew it could have been a Gumm-Gumm means of keeping the changelings from invoking Her in fear the chaotic Eldritch force that backed their cause would waver towards a new cause - and who would stop Her should she choose? It would certainly explain why despite the allegiance between Gunmar and the Pale Lady, most Gumm-Gumms were wary, and looked down at the obsession of the Pale Lady the Sun Giver and Taker).

“I see.” Strickler said delicately, resting his arms on his legs and steepling his fingers together. “Certainly not something to wake all of Janus over frivolously - I thank you both for the discreteness that you collected me with…it couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t.” said Otto firmly.

“I apologize.” admitted their leader reverently.

Otto’s face was difficult to read, “Dummkopf you even had a fever for a while.”

Karenna bit her lip, eyeing Otto and Strickler both, as if unsure if she should sign what she wanted to sign next, “ **There was a moment where it seemed like She spoke through you.** ”

Otto giggled at the ceiling nervously, Strickler furrowed his brows and pinched his nose. Something, when he thought about what Karenna signed long enough, made his hairs stand on end, and his bones ring.

“Was this just before you poured water on me?” he heard himself ask. Moving his hand away from his face, Strickler found himself being gawked at. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then?” his grin humorless and dry.

“Your eyes, mein Freund when you were under, before I threw the water…that was no changeling glow.” said Otto, Karenna nodding beside him.

“ **So it is true, She did speak to you…** ”

“Before I answer,” went Strickler, licking his lips who he noticed were rather chapped by now, “what did I say?”

Obediently Karenna went to move her hands in response, and Otto stilled them, “No mein Freund.” he told Strickler, “No tricks. You tell us what you heard, and then we shall see how what you said matched up.”

The corner of Strickler’s mouth twitched, “Ah.” Strickler could see how easily a situation like this could reach a standstill after all the first to give information is always at risk of the other party changing their information to suit the new information. Though considering Whom they were discussing, well, that certainly changed the game of things.

He eyed them over studiously Strickler folded his hands together calmly, “Very well.” he keened his head over in thought as a veil passed over his brain in an attempt to invoke those strange feverish sensations, to remember, “Her words were loud - painfully so…” he moved a hand to his ear recalling he never checked if they did actually bleed like it felt like they bled in his fever dream, “there was no image save a…a hand, a reaching hand, large…I don’t know how long it was until I could actually make out Her words…it came, it felt - raw…” he looked up, “’the key’ is all that I remember. The clearest thing I remember. No phonograph turntables or strange objects in dreams, I’m afraid.”

After all there was hardly ever a case of the Pale Lady speaking to anyone directly without some sort of tool or means to transmit Her voice through.

Karenna nodded, her reaction a clear sign that his vision and mumbling must add up, “And I said…?”

“Kauderwelsch.”* said Otto despite of himself.

“ **It didn’t make much sense, I’m not sure if it was an actual language…** ”

“Words that sounded of words, but meant nothing. Though I suppose you saying ‘Key’ makes as much sense as you saying Kiev. Though with Kiev it would be an actual start as oppose to a needle in a hay stack.”

“ **But what could it mean?** ”

“Ja, the key to what…und to where…”

“Perhaps the key to Her? Her release.” guessed Strickler while he stood to stretch.

“Or to Gunmar.”

“Now let me be very clear, there was no iconography of Gunmar involved. It involved solely Her.”

Otto gave a nervous giggle, “Ah well, it was your rambling mind after all Herr Stricklander.”

Strickler chose to ignore that comment, and inspected his reflection in the mirror over a sink. It was far from distinguished.

“We’ll discuss more on the matter later, if anything we can look up any sort of key related material in the Archives. In the mean time,” he snapped his jaws at his own reflection before turning to them, “I’ll shove off.”

“Unfortunately you can not leave right at this moment.”

“Oh?” went Strickler, the calm in his voice betrayed torrential sea waters to come.

Karenna shifted awkwardly to the side, Otto’s head became a little closer to his own shoulders (his eyes on the other hand, steeled).

“Well after our conversation mein Freund I couldn’t help but think - why not share your thoughts with the whole Order. Und I certainly wouldn’t do your words justice.”

That shifty polymorph, “You called an Order Council.”

Bular’s temper tantrums aside, once a changeling is in power it is quite a difficult thing to get them out of power, aside from assassination of course, though in the past there was so much more to fear and do when Bular was around than to think up such a lengthy plan as assassination attempts, and outsmarting who’s in charge. Yet when disputes needing settling, and there was always a dispute in one form or other, the quickest thing to do was call a Council. The Council themselves was usually made of available higher ranking half-breeds, some old, some new, and someone standing as ‘Executive Leader’ (someone Strickler would marginally trust when he himself wasn’t available). Needless to say it was a good means of settling in-fighting within Janus when no one wanted to directly involve Bular, or Strickler. The Council itself was a generally new thing, made after Gunmar’s imprisonment - for Gunmar himself would have deplored this level of half-breed assembly at such a grand scale. 

“Well I’d think you’d want our fellow changelings to know your intentions, surely they have a _right_ to know, no?” Otto continued.

Strickler gave a knowing look; Bular’s passing was still fresh perhaps too fresh for such idealism (it was one thing to give about orders without in-depth explanation ‘why become a chief editor is Shanghai? That’s need to know, first become the editor then you’ll be fully briefed’ - or perhaps that was hypocritical), there was risk of intense whiplash. All the same Otto knew this, and my how he flaunted that knowledge.

“You would have had more time to prepare, I assure you, except you were high out of your mind…und I didn't think you needed too much warning to begin with.” Otto said with a lopsided smile. “You might have had time even to change if it didn’t take you so long to come down on…what was it you were on again?”

“A combination of Grave Sand and dead Pixies.” Strickler deadpanned, (keeping the fact that he had no idea to himself...though he was confident on the pixie aspect of what he smoked). Celebrating in their in-tandem reactions of revulsion and doubt. Satisfied he continued cooly, “How long until the meeting?”

“About a solid hour.”

“Splendid - Karenna see if you can find me something that doesn’t smell of smoke to wear, if you please. Otto - you can see yourself out.”

With nods (and clicked heels by Otto) Strickler was left alone to think, shower, and use whatever passed as toothpaste as he wasn’t above using his own finger as an impromptu toothbrush.

Strickler used this time to think about his prospects, it had been a while since he physically attended a Council, (the last time being after the Nomura/Draal incident). His reputation already being on the borderline ruthless, with an occasional helpful streak in the same vein as an opportunistic defense attorney who only took cases that would further their pockets. Yet such was the way of things, and the way things were - what half-breed could do more without exposing himself and compromising the primary objective? As Strickler put it to Jim on that fateful day he learned he was the Trollhunter; “Do what’s good for you, or you’re not good for anybody.”

It was nearly time, and the old tactician’s palms were clammy despite himself. Yet for a movement to take place, he must move. Will his words be strong enough to crack through the instilled Gumm-Gumm nationalism that'd been force fed down their throats for centuries? Can he tug hard enough on those mainsails of bitter disillusionment that they were all forced to keep lowered? Like a poker player on a winning streak and an exceptionally promising hand - Strickler must play the cards he was dealt - or fold and forfeit all winnings.

There was a wrapping at his door, Strickler checked the time.

“Stricklander?” came a rather loud, yet somehow soft voice, as if the volume of a whisper was raised.

“Enter.”

The door creaked revealing Karenna with a change of clothes.

“Karenna? I didn’t know your voice box was fixed.” he said with surprise in his tone, though he was more surprised that she’d let him know such a thing instead of keeping the information for herself for later use. She could have tapped the door even in morse code and he would have opened regardless.

She placed the folded clothes on the bed and straightened.

“ **Neither does Otto.** ” she signed smirking. Such heart felt deception! Were sides already being taken? He frowned at that thought. “ **Besides, my volume is still acting up a bit.** ” she added, misinterpreting Strickler’s expression.

“ **Clever.** ” he signed mixed mirth in his eyes, before walking to the change of clothes.

Could he go to the Council in his Troll form, forgoing all the run around for clean clothes? Absolutely - but it was the principle of the matter more than anything. At worst the clothes she found could have been a track suit, at best a three piece suit, this however was a strange in-between; a tuxedo…which as stylish as it was, risked not fitting and therein risked looking ridiculous as well as - as the youths called it: extra.

“What, no matching cane and hat? Where did you get these anyway?”

“The donation box of articles and clothes that are too outdated to wear.” said Karenna, turning around so not to watch Strickler change.

“Ah yes, and here I thought it was 1905 again.” that would explain it, he thought while considering how much at risk he was of showing his ankles. The half breed who wore this must have been shorter than he was (if only by so much). “I’m surprised this hasn’t been sold off to some fashion design museum by now.”

“There’s a private collector who might be interested in New York.”

He hummed a response while adjusting the waistcoat, before asking matter of factly, “I assume you’ll be escorting me to the Council?”

The long silence was his answer, inwardly he sighed. He would’ve been insulted if he didn’t already have a hunch this escort idea was Otto’s.

“Ah well, no matter.” he sniffed dryly, adjusting his sleeves. His eyes slid from the clock to Karenna who stood to the side with a near dejected air. Something paternal nagged at Strickler upon seeing this younger changeling, who usually boasted bluntness, sarcasm, and initiative to look what some might call downtrodden, even worried. Understandably, even Strickler was worried, who’s to say what the outcome of this Council gathering would bring - only time knew the answer. Though one thing was certain, the Order won’t be the same after it. 

Strickler tapped his foot against the leg of the bed, and looked at Karenna while placing an index finger to his mouth.She furrowed her brows.

“ **Karenna** ,” he started to sign, “ **I don’t know what will happen after this meeting, but whatever the outcome - whether it be favorable or not - you’ll have to be ready to stand by your own convictions. I know you’re already capable to do so.**

“ **That day in the Archives you told me you were relieved the alternative didn’t come to be - the fact that Bular is gone means for the first time in centuries, _centuries_** ” he repeated the sign again for emphasis, “ **an uncharted new future is ahead of us, all of us, even if things don’t go according to my,** ” he grinned at her, “ ‘ **conniving plans’.** ”

Karenna continued to stare, brows furrowed, he wasn’t sure how much of his words she was taking, or if she heeded their intentions. Was he being too vague?

“ **Are we the children of Gunmar?** ”

“ **No.** ” she signed back with a look he’d seen in many students who were baffled by obvious question/answers as if they were a trick.

“ **Whose children are we?** ”

Another pause, “… **Morgana’s.** ”

“ **And an estranged mother she’s been.** ” no one could deny Her long periods of silence. 

“ **But the vision -!** ”

“ **Was a vision - induced by a drug.** ” he signed back with a shrewd look.“ **All the same, we are free to be our own. Free to _be_.** ”

Karenna started to blink frequently, her eyes darting with thought. She looked as though about to move her hands, but stilled them.

Strickler continued, “ **What that will mean to you, and to the others - well it seems to me you should decide for yourselves. And…** ” Strickler bit his lip some before continuing to sign, “ **be the mentor you wish you had fresh out of the fetch.** ”

“ **I had one.** ” Karenna signed back, poignantly looking at Strickler in the eyes.

His smile was bittersweet as he stepped closer, and in a fatherly way nudged his knuckles lightly against her chin before signing back, “ **Then be better.** ”

A shadow of a smile started to creep on Karenna’s face before her phone beeped; it was time to go.

 

Together they walked through the Janus Order halls in silence. Strickler placed his hands in the pockets so to mask his fidgeting thumbs. They soon arrived at the side entrance to the hall.

“I think I can manage the rest of the way, thank you Karenna.” she gave a curt nod. “How do I look?” he added passing a hand through his pompadour.

Ever so heartfelt, she signed back simply, “ **Ridiculous**.”

His chuckle was low, as he thumbed his lapels, “Ah well, vaudeville calls.”

 

Tannhäuser Overture

 

Walking alone now, he could swear he could hear his own breathing. It was rhythmic in a way, leaning into it he closed his eyes and imagined the rhythmic way waves would crash against cliffs and rocks. The way seagulls would call out to other gulls, a boatswain’s whistle, the groaning wood crackle of a deck, the smell of salt, and an endless blue no sky was ever able to imitate, and no eyes - well a pair came to mind…

As he stepped closer to the stage Strickler realized the roaring wasn’t from some internal sea, but of the chatter and talk of fellow half-breeds waiting in the auditorium. It would seem the Council would involve every member of the Order in the local vicinity.

An announcement was made over the intercom, some sort of introduction he didn’t listen to, and something that sounded like a name he answered to. Adjusting his lapels one last time, Strickler stepped out onto the stage, and the closer he got to the podium the more hushed the room became.

The way the lights shown onto the stage made it particularly difficult to see everyone’s faces, though a majority had their black masks on. Those seated in the Council chairs didn’t dawn their masks, and neither did Otto; who stood to the side leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Particles of dust floated through the light, the emblem of the Janus Order projected behind him, he stood to his full height and-

And now, a monologue to the Council, and members of the Janus Order, by one Waltolomew Stricklander:

"

Kin of the Council, kin one and all; thank you for coming here under such…short notice. I’m sure many of you know as to what this meeting is about, and for those who don’t I’m happy to oblige. The question; what is Stricklander up to now, has been asked multiple times, what can he possibly be doing upon raising and controlling a dreaded assassin? With this question I pose another, are you aware we are making history?

Time has passed since Bular’s death, and his absence is well felt indeed, and yet despite his passing movements and operations continued with very little description as to why. Many fellow changelings are entering into rings of influence around the world as we speak, and with every day our influence in the human world continues to grow right under their noses.

Why? Because we hapless orphans - with the ever benevolent passing of Bular - are free from our indentured servitude, free from a debt to repay for simply _being._ _From all this gloom life can start anew, and there’ll be no crying soon._ **

What of Gunmar, some may rightfully ask, what of the years of toil, the fallen friends and comrades? The pain and endured sacrifice, was it all for nothing? No, it wasn’t, and may their faces be a reminder of what doesn’t have to be any longer. No longer do we have to dance about the tarantella to make ourselves indispensable, or fear walking into a tent with hopes we won’t be scooped up and eaten due to a lack of human dietary presence - with diminishing remarks to differentiate that to be eaten wouldn’t be cannibalistic.

I have no need to be reminded as to who we were ‘created for’, we were created to achieve tasks no other troll could think of, relay messages Gunmar himself has never dreamt of - yes I speak of the Pale Lady who we wait listen fight and strive for, but don’t you see? Without her none of us would be, and in our creation She gave a little of Herself. We wait for Her voice, but - Her voice is already our own. Speaking of, have we heard anything about freeing Gunmar since Bular’s death? …

Let that question sink in, as I offer the following; We who have no need of a heartstone, We who have no need to shrink from the sun - because that in itself was a gift to Us - We who have seen history being made before our very eyes and watch it repeat can just as easily take this world and these foolish humans and not only seize control but cease their constant in fighting. We who have no further use for bridge making can set our sights to freeing the Pale Lady ourselves! I dare say we may even be the key to Her freedom! As I recall She didn’t pass Her words through Gumm-Gumms.

Let the trolls in Trollmarket keep their underground and caverns, and in due course we will _burn_ the word impure from their mouths. The scars of what has been done to us will be our chainmail - our swords! Bask in the sun’s rays unashamed and dance through the night!

…Now some of you might call me ambitious because of this, too ambitious even, and you’re right - it is but the way my stone was cut, the reason I’ve managed to survive so long, and the reason (with the Pale Lady’s help) so many of us are here today.

Its been a long, _long_ march, friends, brothers, sisters, and I’d be honored to lead you farther…but first go, have discourse of these things - and take a nap, we’ve earned that much and goodness knows we deserve more.

" 

Whether his fellows cheered or booed he could not tell - someone clapped their hands, or maybe it was all of them. His ears were ringing with his own blood pressure, his whole self vibrating. That sort of weightlessness that happens after finally doing an achievement one has been thinking of doing for so long. Was it a perfect speech? Well he was certainly no Marcus Antonius. Whatever happens next he didn’t know, and he was almost giddy with the thought of not caring. He said his piece, and Strickler would be damned before forcing others to follow him against their will, one tyrant was quite enough (and honey collected more flies).

Strickler kept backstage, his legs wobbly as he helped himself to some more water. A little more clear headed Strickler smiled at himself as he slowly realized - yes, he was applauded at, and a smile grew as wide as his ambition. He could almost click his own heels in the air, as he scooped his smoked clothes (that were contained in a plastic bag), and headed towards the back exit. He had no intention of socializing with the discussing changelings.

He was half way down a lonely hall when he was accosted by none other, who he had no surprise in seeing, than Otto. Who in their solitude could display a more aggressive front towards Strickler.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done Stricklander?!”

“Well I’d say that went about as successfully as the Diet of Worms did for Charles the V - wouldn’t you agree _mein Kaiser?_ ” went Strickler, voice dripping with sonorous acidity.

Otto barreled through the witty historical sarcasm, “Stricklander don’t you see, the Janus Order is more divided than ever now! You’ve generated a division!”

“How exactly are you surprised by this? You were the one who constructed this very situation to begin with - you wanted me to speak, I spoke. What _exactly_ did you _think_ would happen?”

“That you would realize how foolish this plan of yours is! That at the sight of us together - gathered - you would remember our main purpose! We were made FOR Gunmar.”

“Tact never was your strong suit. There wouldn't be division if you had just-”

“You forget yourself Stricklander, and that will be the death of us all. We’re not some great being - we are _creations_ test tube babies that would make Marry Shelly blanche.” Went Otto, disgust bouncing on every syllable. "We can not repopulate ourselves, we do not help in the furthering of life - our rule will be as barren as our rookeries."

“Otto,” went Strickler sadly, “hasn’t this self hate lasted long enough? You can hate yourself as much as you like - though I _wish_ you wouldn’t..”

“Do you honestly think we’re free from Gunmar? He still holds our leashes, even if we can’t see them - and no amount of word play and tricks can change that.”

“ _Otto_ -”

“You are _not_ Shigir Ideale incarnate.”

Now to understand the full weight of Otto’s words, one must first understand who Shigir Ideale is. Shigir Ideale, or Shigir for short, is a folk hero and the source of many oral folktales among changelings that told of the first changeling; a trickster, who was even made Lord by Morgana Le Fay - the ideal all half-breeds looked to and compared themselves to. It was also an early means of explaining their existence to themselves (when no one else bothered to, aside from saying ‘to serve’). The folktales of Shigir served as a source of familiarity in the dark lonely sea between marches, espionage, and war, a lighthouse in the solitude of the changeling lifestyle. A reminder of community that even Gunmar feared, for there was power in storytelling, (and a good portion of Shigir tales talked of duping trolls - though depending on who was in earshot the troll being tricked would interchange between Gumm-Gumm and not. Or a phrase like “The troll - well you can imagine them - but imagine them wisely.” would be used as well). Over time Gunmar and his Gumm-Gumms deplored these tales and stories and would take measures to stamping them out of existence. Despite of this there isn’t a single changeling who hasn’t at least heard of the name Shigir, their marry band, their trickeries, and courtly duties to Le Fay.

Strickler, being of an older generation, knew very well of the trickster folk hero and nearly staggered as if hit by Otto’s words. He stood his ground and tried to give the impression that his friend’s words slid off of him like water on a duck,

“You’re right,” was his cheerless response “I’m not.”

 

Capricho Árabe

 

Strickler, even after reaching his home finally getting into his own clothes and finally sitting in familiar furniture, was restless despite how tired he felt. It was a sort of tired that, made one almost too tired to sleep. Against his better judgement Strickler grabbed his phone (which was currently being absorbed in a plastic bag of rice), his coat, and decided to walk about the cool Arcadia night.

In his steps his mind trailed from his drug induced fever dream, the events that transpired, even to the young half-breed turncoat living in the Nuñez residence - did anyone ever tell him of Shigir? And of course to Barbara. It twisted his stomach to think she felt his pain when Giselle knocked him out, he could only hope she didn’t endure his fever as well. It took every inch of his tired self not to impulsively walk all the way to the hospital or send Fargwa on a reconnaissance mission to find out. As distressed as he was anxious to find out, Strickler decided on the less prowler course of action, and yielded to the fact that he would just have to wait until morning - or so he thought.

For what Strickler didn’t anticipate was to have his questions about Barbara’s well being answered within the night.

Strickler sat on a bench by Arcadia’s founding statue, head tilted back skyward toward the blue glow of the full moon, with his arms hung about the back of the bench. He allowed his thoughts to turn sluggish and gelatinous - to not think, if only for a little bit. The cool air was pleasant against his cheeks, his lips were still chapped, and crickets chirped - though not loud enough for him not to notice a furious discussion getting closer to him, and quickly hushing up.

“Night stroll, Young Atlas?” Strickler leveled his head at the passing Trollhunting band, “On a school night no less.”

There was something in his still lingering teaching voice that made the boys frown (almost forgetting they were enemies), before Claire pipped up and said, “It’s the weekend Mr. Strickler.”

Strickler nodded, accepting he was wrong, and leaned his head back again, “So it is.”

Jim, Toby, and Claire all shared a quick look before Jim stepped forward producing the very weapon he couldn’t use against Strickler. It did the intended affect all the same, as Strickler raised his head once more.

“Just where were you Strickler? What happened?”

“I beg your pardon?” he drawled, sluggish braincells getting back on the thinking wheel. It already felt otherworldly meeting one another by random chance like this.

“Something happened to you - what was it, who attacked you?”

Strickler, for a split second, thought the young human was concerned for him. At least until reality and his internal thinking wheel kickstarted again, “Your mother,” he nodded, and leaned forward, “I haven’t had the chance to hear from her - is she alright?” 

“Was there a fight in the super villain big house or what?” Toby pitched in, who hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and hoisted his pants up some. A valiant go at looking intimidating. There was room for improvement, and it wasn't as if Toby had a baseball bat armed on him. _That_ was something Strickler's pride wouldn't let him forget.

“Was she working when I - slipped?” continued Strickler.

“Yeah I got the call from the hospital, they found her hunched over her office desk.” something in Strickler’s face or voice must have swayed Jim, as the young Trollhunter de-armored.

Strickler inhaled slowly, regret seeping into his bone marrow.

“-wait, _slipped_?” went Jim incredulously, “Do changelings get geriatric or something?”

“None have had the pleasure to live so long to find out.” he aridly responded, replacing the insult as a teaching opportunity. He pulled his rice bagged phone from his coat pocket, “I was observing the public pool.” he fabricated.

“So that’s why she asked if we saw you at school.” piped in the clever Claire, pointing to the phone, “She didn’t hear from you - she must have called.”

“I’ll be happy to get back to her once my phone is working again.” He smirked, sitting up a bit more. 

“Claaaire!” went Jim with that youthful concoction of embarrassment and exasperation finding.

“Sorry.” she sheepishly smiled, before saying something about live action puzzles as an excuse.

“No! Its cool! I shouldn’t have snapped.” Jim quickly backtracked. Both mutually, and rather awkwardly, stepping together to talk in hushed whispers about misunderstandings - and understandings, and explanations, and 'no I'm sorry's'  'no i was being insensitive' - and so forth. They'll feel better afterwards, thought Strickler who folded his hands together and tried to guess how fast the wind was blowing.  

“So!” went Toby loudly, stepping in front of Jim and Claire (covering them while they worked themselves out super quick), “Pooooool puh-puh poool pooly-ooo.” Toby quickly realized he probably didn’t think is good intention all the way through.

“Eloquently put, yes.” went Strickler pinching the bridge of his nose, “and I believe that’d get you 6 points in scrabble - 7 for the polio.”

“You scoping for a secret base there or something?” Toby asked, giving a shot at interrogation.

“Not sure, not enough space for sharks with lasers.” 

“Really?!” caved Toby the exciting idea of sharks with lasers masking his reason - until his face dropped, “You’re lying.”

Strickler gave a patient look of, _obviously_. Why he didn’t just walk away was beyond Strickler, though a part of him didn’t mind the idle chat and mocking.

“So how did you slip?” Toby’s interrogation went on.

“Well it was either slip, or step on two misplaced infants.” Strickler continued to invent, surprising himself in how amusing this all felt.  

“Oh geeze, I’m surprised you didn’t step on the kids.” puffed Toby, setting his hands to his waist. 

“As enjoyable as that might have been, I had a hunch it'd be frowned upon. I have my appearances after all.”

“How humane of you.”

Strickler grinned, “Indeed.”

“Right!” went Jim, stepping back into the ring, as they say, and face a little pinker, "I'm not buying this pool bull!" and to think there was a time Jim actually called Strickler 'Sir', "Who attacked you - and what was up with the canals?!"

“As I was just explaining to Inspector Domzalski here-“ Strickler motioned, biting back a snide lawyer joke. 

“-ooo ‘Inspector’.” they heard Toby say approvingly with a hand to his chin.

“-After clarifying the lack of laser sharks in the near future -”

Jim gave Toby a look along the lines of a silent, ‘ _laser’ what now?_

Though instead of continuing, Strickler interrupted himself this time, as his phone was buzzing through the bag.

“Shigir, Shigir!” went Strickler, a shit eating grin spreading while he fished his phone from the rice, “If it isn’t the Lady of the Lake!”

Jim’s face visibly contorted as he wielded his pointed index finger like the sword he wished he could manifest and use against his ex-teacher. An, “Aaw!” escaped Claire, ever the Romantic. 

“Excuse me children, I need to take this.” a slight pause before genuinely asking, ever so sadistically, “Should I tell your mother where you are?”

Jim threw his hands in the air with exasperation, before covering his eyes with his palms with a frustrated groan. 

“Barbara!” Strickler tried not to notice how warm his own face was getting, she certainly sounded livelier than he had previously imagined, “I was _just_ thinking of you! Sorry about the missed calls my phone’s not quite as aquatic as I thought…mmhhm..the pool actually, no no the public pool - do you like to swim?” another grin to the barely keeping it together youth- to which he had teased long enough. With that Strickler stood from the bench and wiggled his fingers in farewell mouthing ‘ta ta for now’ before continuing his conversation with Barbara.

Leaving Jim to grind his teeth with the company of his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *(Gibberish) 
> 
> **( words from Queen’s ‘Dear Friends’)
> 
> Oof I've been waiting to write this one for a while! I'm really excited about the introduction to the whole folk hero concept of Shigir. Hope I didn't sound like I was repeating myself after a while lol


	7. Comedy Tonight / Le Temps des Cerises / Anything Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is nothing with kings, nothing with crowns! Bring on the lovers, liars, and clowns!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man - this chapter almost didn't happen because I started getting way too wrapped up in editing and changing things and feeling paranoid I might have absorbed ideas or something?  
> All the same, gotta cut the chord Nico 
> 
> Hope you brought marshmallows cause here comes the camp!

 

ACT I  
[Continued]  
Comedy Tonight

 

Walter Strickler couldn’t remember a time he slept so well, giving a long stretch as the early morning light shown through. He contentedly breathed deeply and wiggled his toes. Not only did it finally feel like a new day, but a new era. Hopping from his bed, yes hopping, he opened up the windows and drew back the curtains listening in on the chorus of morning birds screeching at one another to mate.

The choral theme would infectiously attach itself to Walter, who whistled and sometimes hummed Hoorah For The Black Ball Line while setting about making some toast and prepping his moka pot (a reliable old gal who had been with him since Bialetti conceived the Moka Express model).

Walter was really taking his time with his morning, from spreading raspberry marmalade, to answering the plethora of emails that bombarded his inbox (many of which, he found, expressed interest and requests to take on higher operations of power all about the world - furthering his cause). That liquid black gold of the morning never tasted better, nor did his marmalade taste so sweet. Walter dared, perhaps just a little, to think that - despite Jim being alive things could work out. Actually - scratch that. At this point Strickler couldn’t give a flying toss if Jim _didn’t_ die - for goodness sake let the boy live, (he ignored the sense of intense relief in this thought - and mistook it for need for more caffeine). Strickler just had to find a way to keep the child out of the Darklands - and turn back from this path/suicide mission. Perhaps if he found a way to appeal to Jim’s gooey human heart…

Ironically, as he thought over possible schemes, Strickler idly rotated the Inferna Corpula around his finger with his thumb. Incidentally the more this went on, the more Angor’s face kept popping in Strickler’s mind. It’ll be quite the juggling act to try and keep the assassin and the ‘to be assassinated’ at bay, but he’ll control that chaos alright…especially with some more caffeine. Yes there wouldn’t be _needless_ death during his reign, only _practical_ death, (and a fine difference _that_ is). All the same it was like trying to find an answer to The Trolley Problem.

Emails, schemes , and phone calls was how Strickler spent the rest of his Sunday.

 

Yet another fine and delighted morning, arrived Monday as he received a message from Barbara. Who by all accounts should be enjoying her extended day off by at least sleeping in. He was in the middle of pouring out his moka when an invitation to breakfast pinged his way.

‘ _A quick cup of coffee before [his] work_ ’ as it were - despite his polite ‘ _are you sure-s?_ ’ and ‘ _wouldn’t you rather sleep in?_ ’ he happily conceded in the end (as he was already looking up the nearest on the way florist shop).

 

         Deena’s Flower Shop

 

A strong scent of honeysuckle filled Walter Strickler’s nose first, before being assailed by other scents and smells. Ivy’s twisted up the walls, an obligatory fountain was placed conveniently next to the discounted flowers and bric-à-brac. The soft velvety tones of Norah Jones drifted through the speakers. The shop gave the impression of a sort of pastel oasis.

Walter drifted towards the purple heather on sale, surprised it’d even be possible to grow and sell out in the arid California climate.

“Mmm good eye.” came a mild voice behind him. Turning, Walter spotted the shop keeper who had the gentlest of smiles and searching hawthorn colored eyes. A startlingly calm earthy presence, which was quite fitting considering the occupation - but what’s more it invoked an image of what a floral bartender would be like. A sort who would nod knowingly while someone recounted their heartaches before passing another round of daffodils.

“Good morning,” she chuckled. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“Ah! Yes, good morning - sorry I was…well it’s not very often you see heather sold out here.”

She gave an understanding nod, “True, true…but there’s a lot of persistent growers around here - the right care, and prior soil planning. If it can grow in Spain, it can barely manage here.” she laughed.

The joke was a little lost to Walter but he nodded all the same. “Well…I’m in a little bit of a hurry, but I was wondering if I can start up a bouquet.”

“You’re in the right place - what’s the occasion?”

Walter looked around a little, as if the peonies could give him a better answer. Smiling he shrugged and happily said, “Because, just because.”

“That’s my favorite reason.” she beamed.

They started with the admirable heather, then to the impressionistic invoking sunflowers, and finally, well - he might not be able to literally tell Barbara sorry for what had happened, to have felt that blow from when Giselle got the jump on him, but Walter did make sure to add purple hyacinth to the bouquet.

“You know, what would really make this pop?” She calmly said between a sip of her turmeric ginger tea, “Something blue.” 

Walter warily eyed the discounted flower’s bin which held a great assortment of flowers and poppies (including blue poppies). He wasn’t too keen on poppies (unless they were in muffins).

“Myosotis.” she offered instead.

“Scorpion grass?”

“Forget-me-nots.”

“Don’t think that’s the meaning I’m…well…” he considered the dainty little flowers, there was something charming about how a bundle of them could barely cover a hand’s palm. Not everything had to have some deep symbolic meaning, he thought, “Very well. Now that I look at them, I think you’re right.”

 

          The Lakes

 

The bell rang, and after a time and a distant, “coming!” the house door swung open.

“Good morning Wa-what are, are those for me?!” Barbara adjusted her glasses in shock at the sight of the bouquet in Walter’s arms. One of the sunflowers kept leaning into his gaunt face.

He nodded, a lopsided smile, “I couldn’t help noticing all the vases the last time I was over. I do believe one made a very _fine_ Yorick once.”

Her hand floated up to the side of her cheek as an exhaled excited, “Oh!” escaped her. Bewildered she stepped forward and delicately touched the sunflower before helping it away from Walter’s face “I love it.” she gripped his forearm in thanks, and said softly, “I’ll be sure to pass the news to Horatio.”

The bouquet survived the handing off to Barbara who, after entering and moving to the kitchen, started to cut the ends of the stalks in an angle so they’ll be able to absorb water easier in the vase. Walter offered to rinse out a vase and fill it with water.

“Well I thought I was going in to work today,” explained Barbara while placing the flowers in the vase, the two re-arranging them together, “and I was just on my way out the door when Wanda called.”

“Wanda the Infamous.” the amount of scheduling error stories he’s heard was almost as ridiculous as Barbara’s work schedule.

“It wasn’t an error-“ Barbara added, rotating the vase so to see their handy work on all sides, “-more so a last minute change considering what happened. They scheduled someone to cover me an extra day without, telling me.”

Walter became very intent on the placement of the heather, inwardly frowning. Before he could feel any lower, Barbara leaned forward and smelled the hyacinth with a satisfied hum.

“Well at least you get a chance to stop and smell the flowers.”

She feigned a pained look, “Oof that was rough.”

He shrugged grinning, “I aim to please.” as Barbara gave him a slight hip-check.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful - honest, I just…” she bit her lip and considered her words, “Sometimes I need to remind myself its okay to step away from work.”

He nodded compassionately, understanding the struggle quite well. Walter took her hand, spun her (a loud giggle shriek escaping her) and guided her away from the working counter to sit in a chair.

“How about some coffee then?”

She folded her hands under her chin and tilted her head to the side still chuckling, “Alright then.”

Walter, feeling quite please with himself, turned and looked the kitchen over - when it dawned on him, “I have no idea where anything is.”

They shared another wave of laughter, and a little bit of residual water dripped off a petal of a forget-me-not.

Barbara started to get up, but Walter waved his hand at her, “No- no! sit, please. Just…point, I’ll..”

“Alright, alright.”

She started pointing, and Walter would make a show at purposefully going in the wrong direction with a deadpan serious face.

“Coffee is _serious_ business Barbara.” he fake reprimanded over her giggling, “Point _directly_ , its like you’re conducting.”

“So is knowing right from left!”

“My left or yours?”

The last straw was him opening the oven to check inside. The last straw being that it earned him a kiss, the smiling laughing kind which broke his deadpan routine. Her arms reached behind him in what he thought would be an embrace, but turned out to be her opening the cupboard behind him. It was the one that she had been pointing at.

“Ass.” she broke away.

“A cheeky one, I hope.”

Her response was a light pinch on the cheek, a remorseless “Oh, sorry.” and then a mischievous pinch on the _other_ cheek.

That earned her a kiss.

When the coffee was finally made, they idly chatted ever so light heartedly. Walter explained that unlike his staff and students he didn’t need to be as punctual, and was given another cup.

“Thank you.” he said graciously taking the cup, when a shadow caught his attention. Barbara didn’t seem to notice, as she turned back to the sink. Doing a double take Walter spotted a certain young Jim Lake Jr. trying to sneak down the stairs and towards the front door unseen (this was made possible by Walter leaning his arm slightly on the counter opening that over looked into the living room and marginally into the entrance as well). It would appear someone slept in and that someone was going to be late for school, and didn’t want to be noticed. A bit late for that, as the two of them made eye contact.

He watched Jim’s expression struggle with the dueling wants to pummel him, and slip away without causing a scene with his mother. To add fuel to this glorious fire, Walter made a show of looking at a watch he didn’t have on his wrist, and poignantly looked at Jim.

Jim weaponized the use of his index finger, and gave a physical motion akin to; _why I ought-a_. Walter’s response was a casual sip of coffee.

“I couldn’t eat scallops for weeks after that.” came Barbara’s voice growing closer.

Jim froze, Walter glanced back to Barbara and smiled, crossing his legs to lean in such a way that might obscure Barbara’s view to the stairs and her son, “Scallops can be tricky that way.”

“I just don’t know how Jim does it!”

“He unquestionably has a talent of his own.” the praise rolled so easily off his tongue, that he found he was not at all surprised in how much he meant it. Hidden knife fights aside, he still remembered the meal the child cooked. “He certainly did not learn it through the school’s offered Home Ec. classes, baking day can be atrocious - we had to order a new fire extinguisher after a student’s curiosity to make _something_ Flambé.”

“No!”

“Oh yes, it was more like an enflamed muffin by the end. but when the going gets tough -“ he trailed off casually, giving Jim another look.

Why was the youth just _staring_ at him?! Did he need a bigger opening to leave? Walter dared not turn his head fully to see if there was a smirk or scowl or some in-between expression on Jim’s face.

“It was a valiant effort all the same.” waved Walter, “Could I trouble you with some more sugar?”

“Sure thing.”

As Barbara turned her back, Walter leaned to the side towards the door. Jim was no longer there.

“You know I found those photos.”

“Hm?”

“The halloween one.”

Walter gasped and leaned back, “Proof! Evidence!”

“Alright, alright,” she chuckled handing him the salt container on accident. He politely set it aside with no comment. “It’ll take a sec…” she said placing a bit of her hair behind her ear as she tried to remember where she set the album.

When found the two huddled together on the counter and flipped through the album. A few pictures were missing, although dated in the margins all the same, (some with inscriptions such as ‘Grand Canyon’), other photos, were folded in such a way to omit a person. Walter could only deduce that this might be James Sr.

“I should have booked marked it.” Barbara realized out loud.

Finally there they were, the three horsemen of the hangover; Anna (intestines), Zach (lung cancer), and Barbara (liver - failing) in very affordable hand made costumes, with a lot of duck tape, and expert use of trash and grocery bags on Zach’s part.

It was always strange to see photos of humans, in an eerie sort of way. Here Barbara sat next to him, and yet here in this gloriously silly photo (among others) is a far younger version of Barbara. A Barbara who had yet to go through the pains of a disappointing husband and divorce. Who’s biggest problem was perhaps maintaining her scholarship, the next big exam, not getting caught drinking or smoking in the dorms, and the looming beast of student debt. Sure they were in an age of smart phones and gps, all the same it felt remarkable to Walter Strickler; akin to seeing the inventions of Tesla. Trolls didn’t have a means to do such a thing, aside from painting or perhaps with the use of magicks. Yet here these humans are, making smart phones and rocketing off to the moon and beyond. Innovating and surviving. Astounding.

“My life will forever be divided into two moments,” he said reverently, “Before seeing the horsemen, and after.” she nudged him grinning.

“Yeah, we were great.” she smiled nostalgically.

“I think this one is my favorite.” Walter pointed to a rather flattering image of Zach giving a ‘hang ten’ to the camera with his eyes closed, Anna with red eye shine, and Barbara mid burp.

“Not even the three graces could be so…well, graceful.” she nodded.

“They can bloody try.” he snorted.

“Oh!” Barbara clapped her hands and started to giggle, “That reminds me…speaking of terrifying…nah never mind.”

“Tease! Lay it on me, I can handle it - I taught high schoolers. What could be scarier?”

Barbara gave him a look, her smile scrunching to the side of her face in an attempt to look serious, “How about sleep deprived med students?”

Walter feigned a shiver, “When you say it like that…” she clicked her tongue at him.

“It was October,” Barbara started dramatically, Walter opened his mouth to quip but was silenced by a warning look from Barbara. He bit his lip, ears pink, “Three weeks into prepping for exams, and two and a half days without sleep. We were glorious, and Anna and I were assigned for a lab. A good portion of the university was decorated - and our lab room was no exception. In fact on an operating table there seemed to be a body with a sheet over it. It’s also 5 in the morning.”

“A horrible hour.”

“Oh yeah! Especially after two and half days without sleep.”

“You seem to be underlining that point.”

“It’s a big point to keep in mind, trust me.”

He nodded solemnly, “So - body.”

“Body.” she nodded in return, “Well, let me backtrack, I was the first one to see the body, Anna was clocking us in to use the lab.

“So I go over to the body and use my stethoscope…and go

‘Anna you want to hear something wild?’ I pass her the stethoscope - she isn’t even phased by the body to begin with!

And she goes, ‘What’s wild? Its a regular heartbeat.’And I go” Barbara starts to snicker already anticipating the end joke,

“ ‘Anna, we’re in a _morgue_!’ ” Barbara starts to double over, “And before Anna can process this goof, Zach - who was pretending to be the body - rises up like freaking Frankenstein’s Monster only to get backhanded by Anna!”

Walter was shaking with suppressed giggles, “As if a monster was going to keep her from taking an exam now that she’s so close!”

“Her face! Ooo her face!” Barbara kept motioning to her own face then his face then back to her face, “Zach had a bruise for a good portion of a week! Oh Anna, her and her big rings…”

“Did he have to use a steak on his face to take his exam?”

“No - but that didn’t stop us from joking about it.” she cackled.

“Horrible absolutely horrible.” he joked.

“Ah he’s a good sport, and its not like we went overboard on it…and it was our fault for putting Anna in that fight or flight situation to begin with.”

Walter nodded and hummed, taking a sip from his coffee.

“What about you? Any wild stories?”

Walter hummed again a little higher in pitch while fishing about in his mind. One shenanigan came to the forefront of his thoughts, though he would have to re-weave the web of the tale.

“Well…it happened a while ago..” 1400’s or so, “After a pretty harsh day at University..” Walter scratched his collar bone subconsciously, “.. being reprimanded on some bad test scores. Myself, Otto, and Leon did what any repentant students would - and became very drunk.”

“For shame!”

“Ah, but it gets worse.” he snarked, “a few bottles in Otto and I think about playing a bit of a prank on Leon, it wasn’t so much as planned as it just sort of happened. Leon was sitting on the floor, and Otto was on a bunk, and me; by a table - the scene is set.” Barbara smirked at his own dramatics, fascinated all the same.

“As serious as I can, I try to open the table drawer,” Walter continued, “and make a real show of struggling with it. I ask Otto for help, and he catches on, quick as a whip - and starts struggling as well. We improvise a bit of back and forth, really to get Leon’s attention, and call him over when his attention is really peaked. ‘Leon!’ I say, ‘I can’t seem to manage to get this drawer open, can you help?’

‘Yes give it your all.’ Otto says, and passes him the drawer key.” or rather the changeling key to the drawer.

“You guys sound like really put together drunks.” Barbara commented, “annunciation and everything.”

Walter smirked a nudge her way, “Now who’s being cheeky. Alright then,” he cleared his throat and faked a hiccup before repeating, “ ‘Yessshh g-give it your zaaaäaall’ ”

“Stop no! I retract the statement.” she laughs half covering her face, the Otto impression being a little too much, “So what happens next?”

“Leon manages to open the drawer easily, and sort of stares at us as if we’re knobs. Granted -we were, but all the same I stood up from the chair and start bellowing ‘Yes! It’s true!! I knew it! You are the one! The one true Lord! The chosen one! To hold the Ideale Mantle!’

Otto chimes in, ’We didn’t want to believe! Especially after what the librarian said about the dorm!’

And we both start riffing on how the drawer could only be opened by a very specific… _student_ , and that student was him!

‘As it was foretold in the stubs of old used chalk, and grounded chalk boards!’ ”

“What?!” she leans forward.

“We’re very drunk, and its very late mind, and poor Leon is boozed out of his socks.” he reminded her.

“Tell me he doesn’t buy it.” she almost pleaded.

“Buys it, and rips the receipt. We hand him a butter knife and go ‘This is the sacred blade of Gröth last used by The Fisher King himself!’ -making words up obviously.” Walter makes sure to point out, Barbara nods understandably before going,

“Hold up, a _butter knife_? Walt! Thats dangerous all the same, you know how many patients come into the ER because of drunken shenanigans?!” she reprimanded as if in some way she could hop back a few centuries and stop the joke all together.

Walter bit back a quip, taking a note of the seriousness in Barbara’s features, and instead said, “I promise you the joke stops long before anyone can hurt themselves or others.”

Barbara stares considering this for a while before relenting, “Alright…but if I ever hear otherwise from either of them, I’ll see your butter knife and raise you a scalpel.”

His heart practically backflipped with fear and admiration. Perhaps in a perfect world Barbara could mingle with members of Janus, but the world was far from perfect.

Walter, with a slight shift in his seat, leaned over to press a kiss into her cheek, “You got it.”

She hummed leaning into the kiss, and gave him a soft bow of her lips into a smile, “So what happens next?”

“Well we go on for a while about how special the butter knife is, forged in the oven of the Black Forest Witch, tempered by Baba Yaga’s pestle - yada yada and just when we start to think Leon isn’t buying it anymore he goes and says,

‘But it looks so ordinary…is there an incantation to unlock its capabilities?’

And Otto and I go, ‘ _Is THERE_!’ and we improvise the silliest song we can think of!” Walter snorts, pinching his nose so to keep from snorting again as he chuckles, “And told him to sing it to the butter knife while doing a jig! And after the 20 minutes of teaching him the damn thing…he starts _dancing_!” Walter wiped his eye some, as Barbara covers her smirking mouth,

“Leon no!”

“Haa, we stop him before he draws too much of a crowd. He’ll deny it to his dying breath, but he is a good sport about it - and managed to get back at us, in his own way.” he chuckles.

“Oh man, I honestly don’t know what to say - that was _elaborate_! Please tell me you got that on video.”

Walter’s smile froze awkwardly in place, eyes very wide, “Video?”

“Or a photo?”

“It ah-“ _was the 1400’s so no Barbara, afraid not_ \- was what he wished he could say, unfortunately that wasn’t the case. Which was a sudden sad thought to the changeling. A sobering reminder even. Which birthed something alarmingly shaking in Walter Strickler; how much he wished he could tell her the actuality of the tale. “Leon destroyed all evidence, as part of his denial.”

“No one uploaded anything online?”

“The world was still grasping the concept of the internet without dial up. No one was that invested.” he cleared his throat turning his coffee cup around, “You can try if you like.” he bluffed.

It was Barbara who widened her eyes in realization this time, resting her hands on the counter as if to ground herself. Very much reminded of her age, “Oh my gosh…you’re right…how could I forget?! I think we’ve become spoiled.”

“Spoiled indeed.” he snickered very amused, and pleased with the outcome. He took another sip of his coffee.

“So what was the song?” she shook his arm some, “you can’t just mention it and not say it!”

Walter blinked, and leaned back with a hand running through his pompadour, “Its been so long..” he admitted.

Yet unable to deny those deep maritime hues of hers, Walter clicked his tongue and tugged at his own ear lobe tutting a rhythm to help jog his memory. Barbara bit her lip as she watched him, he reminded her of a very handsome rooster. She jumped when Walter suddenly went;

“Ah-HA!

‘For the fall of Merlin and Hog  
One is a Ninny the other a Sod  
As the Mistress doth command it  
I will be Her giddy bandit.’

Needless to say the song became a little catchy around the dorm.”

“So catchy not to record?”

“Listen, if I manage to find a burned cd of the ditty,” he leaned close brushing his cheek into hers, it helped hide the wistful expression that tinged his eyes, before kissing her hairline (to help make the gesture a little more human), “you’ll be the _first_ to know.”

Barbara shook her head, doing her best to hide her smirk, “Horrible absolutely horrible.” she parroted back to him.

“Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

It was around this time, after soft tender looks and a few butterfly kisses, that Walter conceded it was time for him to depart. It was further underlined by an incoming phone call from Esmeralda a changeling stationed in Mexico.

 

Le Temps des Cerises

 

If the car ride and phone call to school was informative it was so to but a few things; Esmeralda was on the fence but would do anything for the survival of the Order, and Walter Strickler’s Spanish sounded lazy. He made sure to tell himself while he snagged one of the school’s Spanish textbooks to later prove a point, that this action wasn’t impulsed from pettiness -but principle.

Arcadia High’s Principal rounded a corner and three things happened at the same time: he received a message (which considering the turn of events with the Council and Order he could not let himself ignore as long as he used to), ran into a student, and said, “I _do_ apologize - though it is a good example why one shouldn’t walk and text at the same-ah…hullo you three.” He straightened himself, pocketed the phone and hooked the Spanish textbook under his arm. “A learning experience all the same.” he continued impulsively, leaning to help Claire up. As good principals would.

Jim stopped his own impulse to slap Strickler’s hand away, and instead rushed to help Claire up himself.

Walter Strickler adjusted his lapels, and looked around, “Either of you have the time?” he made a point not to look at the school clock that was obviously on the wall ticking away.

Jim scrunched his reddening face up, Claire eyed the textbook under his arm and smiled shaking her head, “Lo siento.”

The three of them scuttled along with Toby whispering (not too softly) to Jim, “Do you think even _he_ knows you haven’t asked Claire yet?”

A groan was Jim’s only reply.

Walter followed them with his eyes, and placed a hand in his pocket, thumbing the small piece of paper inside.

He pressed it hard while his nail rocked a slight symbol into it before saying, “ _Zegui-re_.”

With that, he removed his hand. The paper twitched to life and followed after the three students, slipping itself into Claire’s partially zipped backpack. Why is it that hardly any student zips their bag fully shut?

Satisfied, he returned to his phone while heading to his office. A particular message caught him off guard, furrowing his brows as if that would aide in his grasping of the message.

“Library?” Walter vaguely heard someone ask. It was a deep voice that made Walter think of radio talk shows.

“Down the hall to the left, first door on the right after the cafeteria.” he mechanically answered, thumbing towards the hall in question as well.

“Many tha-( _ah!)_ thanks…”

Hearing that voice again, he sincerely doubted anyone on his staff or student body sounded like a radio talk show host. It sounded…familiar and yet no one at school sounded quite similar. Walter raised his head from his phone again, and found himself to be alone in the hallway. Displeased Walter twitched his mouth from one side of his face to the other in thought, before stalking away to his office.

He worked there for a good portion of the school day, before feeling the need to stretch his legs, perhaps skim through the lifted Spanish textbook outside. Watch someone get carried away from the school premises by Coach Lawrence?

The surprises didn’t stop there it would seem, as who should he find waiting in his office but none other than,

“Barbara?”

She was sitting on the piano stool. Sheepishly she looked up, “Hiya Walt.”

“Is everything alright?” a horrible thought came to mind that almost made him ask about Jim, but she would be more distraught then that if what he was thinking was true. Nor would she sit about waiting in an office. Walter bit his inner cheek.

“Fine…dandy…” her voice was low, like how voices became when things weren’t ‘fine’ or ‘dandy’ - but a masked opposite.

She stood up, and Walter quickly crossed the room to wheel his chair around his desk for her to sit in if she’d like.

“I was…in the area.” she started, “Well, on my way to the hospital actually..” she bit her lip.

Walter said nothing and motioned to the comfier chair, before sitting patiently on the piano stool. Barbara considered the chair, but took to pacing about his office instead.

“Wanda called again. Said I have tomorrow off too…I - this is going to sound ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous can be a very strong word. Though paradoxically it can be quite sanity saving.” he coaxed gently, adding softly, “I like ridiculous.” a pause, still seeing the ghost of a crease on her brow he changed tactic, “Sometimes when I don’t have enough of a fix, I have to look up works by René Magritte.”

“How very _surreal_ of you.” she exhaled a half smile, “I’d think you’d go for a more Dada approach.”

“Couldn’t think of a corresponding artist’s name fast enough.” he admitted with a shy smile.

Her smile grew, yet didn’t last as she looked away and adjusting her glasses. By the time her glasses were pushed up the bridge of her nose, the half smile transformed into a sigh.

“When Wanda called to say I have another day off, I started driving to the hospital - as if to complain! No.” she corrected herself, re-choosing her words, “To get to the bottom of all these days off, and reassure her I don’t need as many as she’s giving. There are interns pulling double shifts for crying out loud!”

Walter steepled his fingers together and favored leaning to one side. She started making a figure eight with her walking around his office now.

“I know I’m being selfish, and a workaholic when I could be spending this free time with Jim - when he’s not in school.” her hands fiddled with the hem of her shirt, “And now here I am, interrupting your job fishing for…for..” her hands fiddled all the more.

“Someone to talk to.” he offered.

She smiled a little at that, it was a better way of phrasing what she was initially thinking.

“Yeah…” she slumped into his chair with a sigh.

He smiled and walked around to his desk, pulling out a small confection of teas for her to choose from.

“I hope marginally thick paper cups is alright, I have an electric kettle” he patted it chastely, “just in case.”

Barbara looked up at him as if trying to gauge reality, and the sheer probability of someone like Walter existing in the known human world. A surge of feeling lucky clung to her as her smile grew, “I’ll find a way to manage with the cups.”

So discount office emergency tea was made, earl gray for him and chamomile for her.

“Its a bad habit, I know.” she started to explain, the cup of tea warming her hands, “Unhealthy, maybe even irrational…sometimes I just…to cope with, well name it, I tend to dive into my work. Who has time to think about themselves when there is a patient bleeding out in front of you? There’s something even…grotesquely satisfying in it - I can’t fix what Jim is going through for him, but I can help an inflamed pancreas. I can’t help someone leaving, and remove my heart, but I’m on speed dial with dibs for the first appendectomy. Explains why test scores at school were always higher after a breakup or fight.”

He made a mental note to touch back on this habit of hers later, “Didn’t you mention things being a little less, rocky with Jim?”

“Yes, _yes -_ and thats wonderful don’t get me wrong…it just feels, estranged and I can’t help but think I’m missing something.” she thumbed the rim of her cup. Walter took a _deep_ sip from his tea. “Something just feels off. It’s right in front of me, and I just can’t grasp it.” she momentarily pushed her glasses onto her head to rub her eyes and pinch the bridge of her nose. Walter, couldn’t help but marvel at her observational prowess, and felt helpless that he couldn’t tell her, _you’re not crazy something has been going on, a whole other world to be precise - oh and I’m trying to kill your son. Well, not as much as before, the situation has become more of a trolley problem as of late - more tea?_

He refused to gaslight her, nor would he confirm or deny anything, but would certainly point out, “Now if my _lack_ of medical degree is of any standing…I do think you and young Jim share quite the same Atlas-itis. A strong kindness and generous need to help others without thinking of repercussions.”

“That bad hu?” she took a slow sip of her tea.

“I doubt you’ll need quarantine.” he bit his lip and considered perhaps he wasn’t being as helpful as he thought. “I, understand the want to bury ones self in their work…that in taking up projects perhaps…some clarity might spring up.”

“Does it work for you?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes it just adds to the stress already there.”

“I’d dive back into painting if I could…I haven’t done much because I know I’d..” she gave a hollow laugh, “I’d wake up super early and start going at it for the whole day non-stop…I can’t risk getting carpel tunnel…” her fingers twitched around her cup.

Walter racked his brain for what to say, some sagely advice, a helpful proverb, a something - he should be able to think of _something_. He already was empathizing to such a heightened degree. Mentally a multitude of phrases kept bombarding his brain at the same time in such a disorganized way, it made Walter realize he was giving a good impression of a fish. And yet sometimes…the best thing is silence.

Barbara’s eyes trailed from the floor, to Walter’s shoes, the little nervous twitch in his steepled hands, to his face. A slow smile dawned gently on her features as if realizing a something - a something she wished her younger self realized, and at the same time was grateful her younger self didn’t (for that would mean Barbara wouldn’t be sitting in Walter’s chair now. Staring at him as he searched for something helpful to say to her - classic Walter).

“Watership Down right? The book?”

“Ah, yes -“ went Walter with slight conversational whiplash.

“I think I’ll give it a read, I know I meant it before but…now I really mean it.”

He swallowed trying to mentally connect the dots to what she meant and started to chuckle, it helped release a bit of nerves on his end.

“How does lunch tomorrow sound?” she asked, standing up and placing the tea on a coaster on Walter’s desk.

“Divine.” he smiled, raising his cup in a ‘salute’ motion, “Perhaps afterwards we could tour the local museum?” he offered feeling his ears getting warmer. She was ever so close now, and removing his cup from his hands.

“Beauteous.”

“Good scrabbl-“ the rest was lost in her lips.

The piano stool creaked to the added weight of two people, the piano supported Walter’s back, which started to lean.

Barbara jerked back quickly, realizing “Your job - won’t you-?”

“Mm? I won’t tell the principal” he planted a kiss on her brow, “-if you won’t.” he reassured, with several more kisses as he cupped her cheek.

“Mmm tonsils can’t check themselves.” she said into his lips, feeling them smile under her attention. Their hands wandered, into each other’s hair and neck and back.

Walter pulled away enough to say, “Dr. Lake..”

“Mm?” she exhaled.

“I need help in the OR.”

“Oh?” she breathed returning a kiss and ghosting her hands around his waist with a slight pull, her head raised as Walter started to kiss her jaw line, “What are we prepping for?”

“A tracheotomy.” he breathed into her neck before giving offerings of kisses onto her pale neck, ever so slightly grazing his teeth on such easily tearable marvelous flesh.

Barbara shivered electricity, and continued shivering until Walter realized she was laughing hysterically as well.

It paired well with her nerves. Where did such a man come from, Barbara wondered to herself, who matched silliness with arousal so well.

He pulled away, and her hands covered her mouth hiding it as she wheezed, “So…so dumb…how..” her eyes teared up with laughter and the joyous release of emotion and pent up stress. Her hands moved from her mouth towards his chest, though during their trajectory, Walter caught both of her hands in his own.

“It wasn’t…it wasn’t even that funny…horrible- hoorhahable.”

Her head lowered with her chuckles, and inhuman instinct caused Walter to lean forward, to help raise her head back up with his forehead. Noses bumping in the process. She rocked her head against his side to side while giggling. The bells of Roman cathedrals couldn’t stand a chance against her chuckles.

He couldn’t remember when he started smiling, but Walter certainly wouldn’t stop as he listened to her laugh and try to say, “…that - can’t stop…so bad..”

Walter replied with hums and butterfly kisses on her knuckles. Her fingers wiggled in his hands, an index finger gently freeing itself to trace Walter’s jawline.

“Thank you.” she half sighed half giggled, feeling lighter after such a release, “for _everything_ Walt. For…always listening to me.” her finger traced the smile on his face now, her breathing slowing with lingering traces of her golden laughter.

Walter shook his head side to side now, throat choked with a thousand different ways to respond, he swallowed, “I..” not even a joke could come to mind, “..thank you, for feeling comfortable enough to talk to me. I’m honored.” he heard himself say. He meant it, that doesn’t mean he felt that he deserved it.

He ran a hand through her sunny red hair, and marveled he didn’t catch fire. Another tenderly deep kiss was shared, this time invoking a softness of flowered fields at dawn, a lark in an orchard. After an eternity, they pealed apart from their embrace. Eyes still lingering until they were apart enough to notice the other’s hair and moderate disheveled-nesswith a smirk.

“So..a piano in the office,” she started adjusting his lapels, picking a bit of lint off his shoulder “that’s fancy.”

“I don’t know about fancy.” he said as he removed her glasses in his own attempt to clean them for her. “The school got a better piano for the music room - and I suggested where to keep the spare.”

“A _public_ school?” she wiggled her pinky finger in front of him with a squinty eyed smirk, “Fancy.” and mini-squealed when he feigned an attempt to eat her pinky.

“We have the test scores for the funding.” he squinted, as he held her glasses to the light to see his own handy work, “Comes in handy with talent shows.”

Barbara ducked under his held up arms, leaning closer to his face, “Do you play?”

“I tinker.” he grinned in a show of humbleness, lowering his arms ever so lightly on her shoulders.

She hummed and continued to stare at the fuzzy shape that would be the piano over his shoulder.

The inevitable question arose, as her maritime eyes snapped back to him with a twinkle that caught him off guard, “Play something for me?”

He could practically hear his heartbeat beating through his very red ears now, “Do you ever do that thing where you wear your glasses backwards to confuse people?”

“Walt!”

“Or cover your face like Cousin It from the Addams Family?” he moved a hand to rustle her hair forward. She caught it instead with a pout, and placed her other hand to the side of his head thumbing his red ear.

“A wee diddy?” she batted her eyes in a disgustingly beautiful fashion.

“ _Wee_?” he repeated placing her glasses back on her face clumsily. She leaned forward and pressed another kiss into him, deep and long.

“Well,” he exhaled, placing a strand of hair behind her ear, “alright - you twisted my lips.”

They agreed that sharing the office chair would be mutually comfortable without having to distance themselves from the other. Barbara sat slightly on his lap while his arms stretched around her, which made for easy access to neck and shoulder kisses.

“Which dead composer should we start with?” he snarked.

Barbara snickered, “Oh I don’t know…Bach?”

“Aaah, Bach - crazy little bugger.” he placed his hands over the keys letting them hover, and her anticipation rise before saying, “You know the thing about Bach-”

Barbara snorted and leaned her head back into his shoulder, “This is going to be like pulling teeth isn’t it.”

“Not my field of practice…or yours, I should think.”

She kissed his cheek in an attempted stern fashion.

“Oh alright…” he said unable to keep a straight face. His fingers returned to lingering over the keys.

He grew the suspense once more before pressing down into the keys with a lean. The formation of a C Major Sonata came to life, quick, plucky, ever so allegro, and short lived as he jerked his hands back with an “Ah!”

Barbara jumped with surprise, jerked from the musical spell, “What’s wrong?!”

“That’s Mozart, not Bach.”

She exhaled a “Good grief.” placing a hand to her heart, she leaned into his shoulder, “I swear Walt..”

“This time.” he lied, rubbing his fingers mischievously together as if they were to blame for the blunder.

When he placed his hands back to the keys, ‘this time’ invoked a waltz that brought to mind mountains and large dry hills, rushing falls and crisp cold air. Barbara watched his fingers dance over the keys, mesmerized.

So mesmerized she barely batted an eye when Walter cursed, “Strauss!”

“Jr?” she quipped.

Walter opened his mouth with intent of a follow up joke, but noticed the self conscious look on Barbara’s face.  
“If you don’t want to-“

“I do.” he cut in, the dawning realization his joking must have run too long.

“Cause I totally understand, believe me, if you-“

“I do.” he reassured with a little hug and a kiss into her hair, “I got a little carried away is all..when you asked, I must admit, I felt a pinch disarmed.” from joking too much, to saying too much, he thought.

Barbara leaned to the side, to get a better read of his face. A smirk slowly grew on her face, “I’ll try to be a pinch less-”

At this he dipped her without warning and bent tenderly close.

He knew full well her words came from a place of good humor, yet warned her all the same, “Don’t you _dare_.” before offering up another kiss into her smiling lips.

In tender due course, slowly lifting Barbara up pealing slowly away from each others lips yet again, he shifted a little and Barbara settled as well. Both grinning and rosy cheeked Walter hovered his hands over the keys again, felt a supportive kiss on the cheek, and played Bach - for real this time - or as Walter liked to call it “Baroque jazz.”

From there he seamlessly transitioned into a rendition of Gershwin pieces- whom Barbara recognized when a few riffs of An American in Paris cropped up. By the time Walter drifted to more melody centric pieces Barbara was leaning into his shoulder with a low steady breath.

“What’s this?” she asked softly into his collarbone, eyes unsure to linger on his dancing fingers or close and imagine what the music mentally invoked.

“The Time of Cherries.”

She hummed a smile, “It sounds nice, and bittersweet.”

“That’s the French for you.” was his mirthy response. “It used to be considered solely as a popular classic love song. Though the meaning changed radically during the Franco - Prussian War.”

“Is it not about love anymore?”

“It is, it is.” he nodded leaning his head to meet hers slightly, “Rumor has it; the piece is dedicated by the author to a young nurse that he came across -he witnessed her valiantly helping during the war, and keep cool under intense circumstances in such a way it moved him. So in many ways, the love in it is underlined all the more.”

Barbara smiled at that, and hummed into his collarbone again.

As the piece went on, the more Walter felt her weight slack against him. Sure she had drifted off Walter Stickler began to hum along.

 

        Trollmarket

 

Claire, Blinky, Jim, Toby, Aargh, and Draal stared down at the piece of paper that was currently stuck to NotEnrique. The poor young changeling would constantly try to pull it away only for it to get stuck right onto him again like static.

“Well? Wut do ya make of this?” NotEnrique asked pitifully, rolling on his back to get the paper off of his scruff and - shift it, if anything, to another part of him.

“Yes, please explain again, slower.” went Draal who crossed his arms and started to lean to the side, only for his horn to tap on a precariously tall stack of books. A sharp look from Blinky, and he stood straight again.

“We were getting supplies for the mission.” started Toby.

“A quick break, run home - eat a hotpocket.” added Jim, without adding; _notice the bouquet your enemy gave your mom and resist the urge to mash it down the disposal - OR think about the fact that if it wasn’t for your mom’s loud laughing you would have ended up being later for school than you already were, and be in trouble._

“It happened when I got home.” reasoned Claire, Jim snapped back from his thoughts and listened, “When I went up to my room to set my backpack down I watched it float out of my backpack and attach itself to NotEnrique…and glow this weird mark.”

“BUT WHY?” whined the changeling in question.

“That’s what we’re trying to decipher, if you would. hold. still.” said Blinky tapping his foot while his arms motioned to hold the young changeling down. Sorrowfully missing his second pair of arms. “It’ll be easier to read if you’d stop this _incessant_ squirming.”

It was understandably uncomfortable for NotEnrique surrounded by larger trolls and humans holding him down. Not that he would let that on, of course. The hairs on his back shivered and quivered in an attempt to look bigger than the rest.

The body behavior reminded Claire of when her cat would need help, but didn’t want to be touched while being helped.

“It’s certainly trollish…but it’s written in such a way..”

“Could it be an accent?” pipped in Claire, “Or written in a dialect?”

Jim turned a chair backwards to sit in and rest his folded arms and head on. His own internal thoughts frantically jittering between how amazingly smart Claire is, and; _oh no I have to ask her to Spring Fling - how how how?_

“Draal, Aargh what do you make of this? Does it seem linguistically familiar to either of you?”

NotEnrique opened and closed his hands pouting in frustration as the two trolls leaned forward for a look of their own.

The longer they stared, the more the two would do a chorus of thoughtful humming, at one point Claire was sure they harmonized.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t ring any bells.” admitted Draal, who stepped back into his corner, there was so little space as it is.

“Nothing.” said Aargh astutely. “Reads like sounds.”

Claire perked up at this, “One more time?” she asked Aargh.

“Reads. like. sounds? Sounds like reads.” Aargh nodded with a hopeful smile that the rephrasing was helpful.

“Its written phonetically!” Cheered Claire, feeling the euphoric rush of solving something. She started bouncing in place celebrating her own cleverness.

“By jove!” blinked Blinky as he tapped his chin, “she’s right!”

“Yeah I am!” she cheered while receiving high-fives from Jim and Toby.

“Get it Claire!” called Toby before leaning to the side and softly asking Jim what phonetically meant.

Jim, still inhabiting two places mentally between trying to be present and the riddle of how to ask Claire out, distractedly went “Aaaauuhh…”

“The written means of pronunciation, Tobias.” said Blinky.

“The bracket bit in the dictionary when you look up a word.” added Jim.

“Not only, a lot of Romance languages spell their words how they sound, like Italian and-“

“ _Español_!” Jim smile laughed, subsequently ignoring Toby’s hidden eye roll.

“Not that they are written phonetically, of course but-“

“But WUTS IT SAY?!” cut in NotEnrique at the ends of his patience, and not at all interested in the intricacy of where this language lecture was going.

“Ah..yes…back to the track, as they say.” went Blinky walking over to NotEnrique, who was being eyed carefully by Claire already.

The whole gang, aside from Jim who took this moment to go back to his own dilemma, leaned over NotEnrique.

“Sssssshhhhhhhhhrrrrrrr” they all went at different intervals.

“Sounds like a bloody air leak.” grumbled NotEnrique who hoped no one could hear how fast his heart was pounding.

“This is ridiculous.” went Draal tapping out of sounding along out loud with the others.

“You’re right - we missed an ‘eh’ sound.” noted Blinky.

“I’m being as still as I can!” snapped NotEnrique defensively before anyone could place the blame on him.

“Once more then - a little quicker perhaps.”

They repeated their chorus, faster slower sometimes with different inflections - until finally:

“Shigir!” cried Claire who proudly folded her arms.

“Didn’t Strickler say that word the other night?” asked Toby.

This brought Jim’s attention to the forefront, standing up from his chair, “Wait, what?” he walked over to the paper and held the glow of his amulet over it. The blue glow transcribed the phonetics into none other than: Shigir.

Everyone stared at Jim.

Jim stared back, puzzled.

“You mean we could have done that the _whole_ time?!” went Draal, who would have preferred the easier route as opposed to all the mental hoops to jump through.

Jim laughed nervously and raised his hands, placated, “Sorry I was…distracted.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder as Toby, ever so knowingly, said, “It’s all good Jimbo.”

“It probably would have been quicker, but I do like my riddles.” smiled Claire, rubbing her other arm with restrained consoling affection.

Jim straightened his back and smile-grimaced, “N- no problem-o.” with added finger guns for emphasis.

Jim could hear Toby silently groan behind him, and felt Toby’s forehead press against his back dramatically. The softest supportive, “ _dude_.” followed.

Claire politely placed some hair behind her ear and chuckled.

“So! What is a Shigir? Some kind of weapon?” Jim asked, diverting the flow of the situation back to its origin.

“More evil?” asked Toby wiggling his fingers for effect.

Blinky opened his mouth to talk, then closed it with a puzzled look, “I’m…not one hundred percent sure…”

“Ain’t _Shigir_ some fable? Or is it an expression?” went NotEnrique, who subsequently gasped when the paper on him started to glow at the edges. He gave a slight shriek thinking it’d catch fire, and started to roll around. In one roll, the paper was off of the changeling and burning heatless purple flames at the edges, until it was nothing.

Claire was mystified by the display of magic, and had to physically stop herself from saying, _cool_.

“The dickens?!” sniffed NotEnrique, squinting his eyes.

“It would appear, you saying the word activated a response.” deduced Blinky.

“Do you think it followed the same logic as changeling keys?” Toby asked, leaning away from the ash suspiciously.

“Why would Strickler attach a piece of paper to NotEnrique just for NotEnrique to read it _out-loud_ , and…magically _burn it_?” furrowed Jim, who started to pace.

“These are excellent questions.” said Blinky tapping his chin with one hand and scratching his stomach with another.

“Perhaps Bossman’s tryin’ to give me homework.” cracked NotEnrique, “Don’t he know I switched sides?”

“It would seem the answer would be in the question: whom. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a Shigir story…have either of you?” Blinky looked more at Aargh then Draal at this question. After all it wasn’t common knowledge that Draal and Nomura had an affair (aside to a select few), and Aargh was a former Gumm-Gumm general, who must have worked with changelings at some point in his military career. It was practically unavoidable.

To Blinky’s surprise the two trolls looked around the library in thought (with largely differing expressions), and nodded.

“ _Oi!_ You ain’t going to ask the actual changeling in the room?” snarked NotEnrique with lowered ears.

Blinky improvised an embarrassed cough and half smiled, “Yes..um…have you..?”

“Nah, not really.” he said as if the blunder was already nothing, the enjoyment of the awkwardness was enough, “I mean..” he paused giving the question more thought now, “There was spooky moments when the name would bounce off the walls in the Darklands - Gunmar hated those days.” NotEnrique shivered suppressing a bad mental image, “And once, when eavesdropping on one of Gunmar’s chats to the other side; he _really_ chewed someone out for saying the name.”

Aargh nodded at this, recognizing his former leader’s actions. The whispering in the Darklands was strange, though the Darklands was a mysterious place.

“Gunmar not like stories.” the former general confirmed. 

“Stories not even _Gunmar_ likes? Yikes.” commented Toby, who glanced at Jim. Jim seemed to be deep in thought, frowning at the collection of ash on the table.

“Well what kind of stories are they?” Blinky coaxed, pressing his fingertips together.

NotEnrique shrugged, “Think they’re some Paul Bunyan sort.” he grinned proudly at Claire, “Heard _that_ name on the telly.”

Once again Aargh and Draal showed mixed expressions on their faces, as mental images sprung up at the association of Shigir stories. For Aargh it brought a mental image of being snickered at behind his back. For Draal; a late summer’s day under the cover of a cave’s entrance next to a nimble fuchsia impure- _changeling_ with eyes like bioluminescent foxfire moss. Their bodies entangled post-mating with searching ghosting hands and fingers gently caressing the small of her back, and her hands weaving constellations onto his arm. The feeling that no matter how violent and chaotic the world around them was, they’d be fine if they held onto each other. If they could have only held on tighter…

“Mean.” said Argh.

“Mushy.” Draal heard himself say.

The two shared perplexed looks, and repeated what the other said quizzically.

“Mushy?”

“Mean?”

“At the very least they sound…diverse.” prompted Blinky.

Draal exhaled a snort from his nose that caused his nose ring to waver in the air pressure, “It was only one story.”

“And oral.” nodded Aargh.

Jim blanched, “whAt.”

Aargh held up a book helpfully, blissfully unaware of what mental hoops the poor youth was going through, “No book. Just mouth.”

“Ah, told in the oral tradition.” Nodded Blinky, “That would explain why you perhaps didn’t know as much as you could.” he reasoned to NotEnrique with the smallest sense of pity. It was always a sad thing when one is deprived of the resources to learn what they liked or wanted. Blinky knew that well, as did his shirt collar when being dragged away from Arcadia High.

Jim snapped his head back and forth, not appreciating these less than sensational explanations. “Y-you mean..?!”

Mercifully Toby went, “I don’t think they mean that kind of oral.”

“There is another?” asked Draal.

“ _we are not going there._ ” Jim whisper yelled.

“Oh plenty.” barreled through Blinky, not at all understanding the fuss or tension in the argument. “There’s oral history, oral literature, oral law..”

NotEnrique was on the floor laughing himself to pieces at this point. Toby gave Jim a slight shake so he could stop astral projecting to some other dimension where this topic of conversation never happened. Claire inhabited the chair Jim was using earlier, eyes very wide and looking at the table corner wishing she could do The Office joke where she could look into a camera.

Luckily Toby brought Jim back in time to hear Blinky continue and say, “As long as the topic is being passed on vocally. Though there is a difference between oral tradition and history -being that one is not done for academic achievement or method to learn, but to maintain memories, knowledge -a culture.”

Jim looked at the ash on the table, then to NotEnrique, who was rocking back and forth on the floor holding onto his own feet. Looking a little more serious and tucking his hands and amulet into his pockets, Jim looked at the other trolls in the room, and paced a bit in thought.

“Is there anything else you guys can tell us about Shigir? Anything you can remember? A title or-” asked Jim, his expression still difficult to read.

Aargh and NotEnrique shook their heads. Everyone’s head turned to Draal when he cleared his throat.

“It’s was called…” Draal was pulled back to thoughts of birdsongs, a near by stream, and a soft tender voice he’d hum to while she spoke of, “Shigir and the Story of Ohou.”

Jim looked at Draal knowingly, and delicately asked, “Do you remember what it was about?”

Something about two great and highly praised warriors admitting that in the face of the great emotion called love they weren’t so special. That Death isn’t the great equalizer they thought it was - it was Love that held that formidable title. Love in its gentle step, Love that would grow flowers from the blood and dust of the fallen, Love in its raw simplicity - and the years it took to understand it.

Draal shifted where he stood, examining his prosthetic arm. He hated deception, its use, and its practitioners - and yet the blunt troll was fumbling with deception’s reigns. Though it wouldn’t be a full lie, he consoled himself. He couldn’t re-tell the story if he wanted to…(it wasn’t his to tell) he only remembered bits, and how it made him feel, and who it made him feel for.

“No…I’m sorry Trollhunter, I…can’t help you as far as a title.”

“Its cool dude…”

 

_Et Dame Fortune en m’étant offerte / Ne pourra jamais fermer ma douleur_

 

         Principal Strickler’s Office

 

“J’aimerai toujours le temps des cerises, et le souvenir que je garde au cœur.” *

“So he plays _and_ speaks French.” Barbara chirped, opening one eye while simultaneously giving Walter a tight squeeze around his middle.

“You _were_ awake!” he gasped, “You - you _tricked_ me!”

“I wouldn’t say tricked.” went Barbara mischievously -oblivious of the deep effect this had on the changeling, and scratching her nose against his jumper.

“You actually _tricked_ me!” he felt so sure she was asleep.

“Your heart rate is u-“ she cut herself off with a soft shriek of surprise, giggling from under a flurry of butterfly kisses while trying to say, “Walter I doubt that was the first time someone pulled the ‘old pretend to sleep’ trick.”

“But it worked!” he declared between kisses ala Gomez Addams, “I can tell - I always can tell!”

“Pff like some secret agent?” she snarked between yelped giggles, “Are you _secretly_ Bond-“

“Like a high school teacher!” he defended before planting a wet kiss at the base of her ear.

“Ah! O-okay haha eek! OkAy! MmmMmm _malt_ \- ah WALT.”

He jerked back, “Too much.” he immediately started to agree, “Too far.”

“What? No no, that was glorious- but the whole school is going to be on to us, if they’re not already.”

“Isn’t it lunch -?“ Walter searched for the clock on the wall and marveled at the time. “I didn’t even hear the final bell.”

They were both looking at the clock now, and the time was rather sobering. How had either of them not noticed? The miracle of time distortion when one is with the person they - highly fancied, felt a heightened infatuation for. The alternative felt impossible - Walter watched as Barbara hummed through his office, a most ordinary sight and action and yet - it only underlined the impossibility of it all, surely, under such a short amount of time? As the story goes it took years for Shigir and Ohou to come to terms with the fact that they…well…all the same it was a dangerous notion. A beautiful disaster of a notion. How many good half-breeds fell to the sticky web of such a notion- too many. It was a miracle Nomura survived her situation with Draal at all. The young fool…if the Tale of Ohou proved anything, it was that the notion (that will remain un-named), was very dangerous. Death was easier to trick than the un-named notion.

A jolt of pain on his thigh returned the changeling to his senses, and away from his thoughts. Biting his inner cheek he watched as Barbara was reprimanding the corner of his desk while adjusting her glasses.

He cleared his throat, “Are you alright? That looked like it hurt.”

“I’m - well - doubt it’ll bruise.” she brushed off.

He had a feeling she knew very well it was going to leave a bruise. Not that he could contradict her without rising suspicions. Walter wheeled his chair back behind his desk, and waved his hand when Barbara tried to collect the now cold tea in their paper cups. She replied with a classy raspberry.

“I should head back - Jim is probably home by now. I didn’t leave a note..” she explained, frowning at her phone. Walter didn’t see her frown, instead he placed the piano stool back to its proper designated location.

“Probably.” he hoped - for her sake at least, “I should be closing up shop here myself.” the thought of contacting Angor Rot about the Quagawumps looming over him like the plague.

“Otherwise…” said Barbara suddenly very close. Or rather; he realized she was right behind him after he straightened up.

“Otherwise…” he repeated, finding it very hard to swallow or look away. “Have everything?” he asked, breaking the hanging silence for the sake of his own sanity.

“Oh!- yes.” she replied on impulse, then realized her hands were empty. “Yes.” she reiterated, grabbing for her purse.

She clutched it tight, as though attempting to anchor her own senses.

“Walk you to your car?” he offered clumsily, raising his hand - er- arm.

It was baffling trying to make out what happened in the split second they realized the time. _Life,_ said a tiny voice in Walter Strickler’s reasoning, _the jarring fact that it must go on. One can’t hole up in their office and expect the world to stop for them._ Wouldn’t that be conveniently pleasant.

They walked the empty halls together, occasionally peering through windows of classrooms holding their tutoring hours,

“You speak it so fluently.” she idly chatted while they walked arm in arm.

“Well, knowing French makes it that much easier to fight them.” he quipped, enjoying the double meaning behind it. After all who doesn’t enjoy a good United Kingdom vs France joke? “Are you _sure_ your thigh is alright?”

“I’m not limping Walt. Its fine, just a little bump.”

They passed the music room where an after school chorus club started on their warm up scales, and exited into the parking lot of a bright California day.

Safely they arrived to her car, she unlocked it with her free hand.

“Ugh its getting hot - its not even summer yet.” Barbara conversationally complained - a hand visor-ing her eyes. How they still managed to twinkle under her handmade shade was beyond Walter. He smiled for the zillionth time that day.

Walter also found himself selfishly hoping for zillion more days to come. He slid his hand to the small of her back, bent low to replace her hand with his forehead -dipping into a gentle kiss. Barbara leaned into his kiss, and found herself pulled to her tiptoes against him. They could have stayed there for goodness knows how long, giving and receiving. A hot breeze passed between the branches of the sycamore trees that lined the parking lot. Breathing was essential for both humans and changelings and at some point they’d have to come up for air, (much like at some point they had to leave the principal’s office - and sadder still…well, all in due time). Breaking away their shared breath was as hot and mixed as the California air - though not quite as dry.

“Until tomorrow?” he asked.

“Hm?” she was marveling his cheekbones with a small caress, “Oh, yes. Tomorrow.”

Her lowered glance made Walter realize he still held her against him to her tiptoes, they grinned silly.

“Tomorrow.” he repeated - like an apology for not letting go sooner.

“Tomorrow.” she repeated - like an assurance that there was _no_ need to apologize.

“Tomorrow.” he repeated, accepting the fact that it’d be tomorrow that they’ll see each other again.

“Tomorrow.” she repeated fumbling with the car door. Which made Walter realize he should have opened it for her, by impulse he leaned for the door- the slow reaction time caused their hands to touch, and another set of giggles birthed while Barbara just barely missed grazing her head on the frame.

This went on for sometime, but rest assured - _tomorrow_.

 

_“Love walks whatever path it wants - and where it treads; life, love, and death follow Their dainty step._

_‘You know,’ said Shigir, looking firmly at the tracks on the forest ground, ‘I think we’ve been on the path to Love this whole time.’_

_‘What happened to being clever enough to kill it?’ asked Ohou._

_‘It would seem’ said Shigir smiling in relief and acceptance on the matter - finally ‘that Love-’_

_‘-unlike Death.’ added Ohou. For it is known that Death will let Shigir tread on, until Shigir ran out of tricks and cleverness to show Death._

_‘-unlike Death, yes - Love is one sticky trick I can’t get out of. After all I’ve done, after all we’ve done- no trick has worked with Love, I believe it immune! No, this is no trick I can get out of…nor do I..’ Shigir trailed off looking at Ohou, and the way the light was framed between her beautifully deadly horns._

_Ohou paused, and considered the phrasing of Shigir’s words; unsure and excited all at once, ‘Do you want to?’_

_‘No.’ Shigir dropped all weapons, and raced close to Ohou - they pressed their foreheads together, ‘Its a good trick - Love. Perhaps even my favorite. I think I’ll treasure it always.’_

_‘You don’t feel trapped?’ asked Ohou unable to stop smiling, yet still in need of convincing._

_‘With_ _you_ _dear partner? O Love! Ohou Love!’ said Shigir ” Nomura tilted her head upwards nibbling at Draal’s chin and ear._

_Draal felt the gems on his back expand with heat._

_“ ‘Never!’ ” Nomura whispered sultrily._

_Draal hummed, and felt his throat go hot, “Then what did they do?”_

_“Mount me again, and you’ll find out.”_

 

Anything Goes

 

Otto’s day had been reasonable at best, miserable at worst. He was getting the distinct feeling the Council was ignoring his messages, voicemail, FaceTime calls. Something about not wanting to be influenced by outside forces when it came to the discussion of Stricklander’s removal. Especially biased forces. The old shifter wanted his pound of flesh all the same - and by Charlemagne’s sagging left nut he’s going to get it. He’d just have to be, like most changelings, clever about it.

Which is why Otto ignored Stricklander’s eight phone calls, and was entering the Janus Order through the main entrance.

The travel agency’s lights were off when he stepped in. He eyed the sensor inside the poster of the world.

The phone should have rung by now. Otto frowned at it sternly, as if that would get the changeling posted on guard duty to look at the security screen. His furrowed brows willed nothing.

“Honestly.” he huffed.

Receiver snatched Otto cursed at the dial tone, and muttered his way through dialing the office. There were too many rings for Otto’s liking. It wasn’t even that late. The time being two in the morning. Tiredness couldn’t be an excuse for such slow reaction time, the new shift should have started by now.

Still no response, as a little jingle started to play.

Otto’s eyes widened slowly thinking the worse. “Scheisse.” He hung up the phone and picked it up, circling the dial for the pound repeatedly (six would have been enough) until the gears of the elevator groaned to life.

During his descent Otto paced, and quickly stopped as he noticed the handiwork of multiple someones having painted over the mural of Gunmar - or rather added a tasteful monocle with a less than tasteful meal. There was also a crude depiction of Bular’s rump. Neon green letters that spelled ‘PL’, the classic ‘Kilroy was here’ with an added ‘and brought the sick jeep’ attached to the end. Another set of graffiti was the acronym S.P.Q.R, below it in different hand writing someone wrote ‘SONO PORCI QUESTI ROMANI’**

There were also paint lines that suggested someone rode the elevator a few times just to trace lines going up and down.

“What Shigir-shigiring nonsense is this?!”

If Otto thought this was horrifying, the bar would raise dramatically when he looked out into the lobby hallway. Streamers hung everywhere, streams of paint, confetti, articles of clothing (one of which looked straight from the 1600’s). Music distantly echoed off the walls.

Well, at least there weren’t skulls everywhere, he thought.

Otto dreaded walking down the hallway, if this was only the lobby - Le Fey help what disaster awaited deep within. He turned a corner and stepped over what was clearly, vomit.

Two changelings barreled out of a side door nipping the other’s chins - pheromones off the charts. Otto plugged his nose and frowned more than he thought he could. One of the changelings smiled goofily at Otto, and continued trying to arouse their partner, the other did their best to look decent often batting their amorous partner with purrs to do the same.

“Scaarbach!” it was a miracle the pale blue changeling managed to pronounce it right. Breath thick with booze as it was.

“Mr. or Herr.” Otto corrected testily.

The pale blue changeling elbowed their yellow partner who was snickering between hiccups.  
“Why is no one on duty?” Otto continued with a cold strained smile.

“Ah- well - um” the changeling glanced about as if suddenly asked what the meaning of life was, and felt really embarrassed as clearly the meaning was found already…right? “excellent question Mr. Herr.” the yellow changeling leaned into the blue changeling’s ear nipping it before whispering something, and nipping their ear again. “ _Herr Mr._ ” the pale changeling corrected blushing.

They hugged the yellow changeling close behind them as if trying to hide the yellow changeling from Otto. After all, Otto might think they were drunk and on their way to mate…again.

“Ah-huh.” this was getting nowhere, and the smell the pair gave off was unbearable. Otto pinched the bridge of his nose before pocketing his hands, “Where’s -?”

When he looked up, the changelings were already not so sneakily scampering back into the room they barreled out from in the first place. 

Twisting and weaving through the Order’s labyrinth Otto used bile, music and the increasing smell of sweat and liquor as his golden fleece. Eventually the trail led Otto to the Order’s largest room - a ballroom half the size of a forum. It was hardly ever used aside from large assemblies, and when Bular was in the mood for bloodthirsty entertainment.

The blood curdling horrors of deeds past were far from the minds (or very prominent depending on who one asked) of the changelings that filled the ballroom. It was as if years of late and repressed New Year celebrations and parties were happening all at once. Large chandeliers alight, one of which had a few changelings swinging singing and coaxing others to try and jump to from an overlook. Smoke filled the room and was overworking the poor ventilation system. Otto could roughly hear six different drinking songs being sung in different parts of the room at once, in seven different languages (there was always that one show off). Uniform abandoned to favorite clothes from different periods of history its variations, and just what could be silly or comfortable or anything! Dancing sweat and loud talking, it was a miracle anyone could hear anything through the speakers, the fact that one was dressed up as Bular’s shouting face didn’t help either. Otto didn’t even want to think about how fountains of alcohol could be afforded, and a very self serving bar - _bars -_ with ‘bartenders’ trying and competing to out trick-shot their delivery of the alcohol and drinks. It explained why everywhere Otto stepped seemed sticky, (that and other reasons).

It was maddening, and Otto could think of only one mad foolhardy sneaky low vile idiot who would pull such a stunt. Now if Otto could only _find_ the dummkopf.

It was like trying to swim through schools of fish that didn’t want to move. Or rather a not so skittish coral reef ecology. Though the more Otto searched, the more he found it futile to try and maintain any sort of discipline or hierarchy - and resigned himself to the fact that tomorrow will be quite the lesson for the lot of these poor souls. Especially when asked to dance a mazurka to Sweet Caroline. Otto tried very hard not to have enjoyed that. In fact it was very hard trying not to enjoy anything. The atmosphere was certainly contagious with laughter and smiles - the dancing and swaying - the talking that looked like necking, the necking that looked like talking. Otto couldn’t remember seeing such a happy gathering of half-breeds for the life of him. All the same he drew the line at accepting drinks. It was hard enough to wade through the tide of inebriation and folly without being inebriated himself.

A hand reached out to him in the crowd, and Otto hoped very much it was somehow Stricklander who found him. It wasn’t.

“Chakraborty? I didn’t know you were on the continent!” Otto smiled.

A changeling smiled back with very colorful luminescent henna on her human flesh. Especially done for the evening, Otto guessed.

“It is good to see you too Otto!” she yelled delighted.

They embraced and kissed cheeks. Something prodded him.

“Why do you have your saber?”

“What?!”

Otto pointed at the tied saber on her hip that was as deadly as it was beautiful. Chakraborty leaned closer to Otto’s ear, though still yelled, “I’m excited to see you!” she cracked.

Otto made an exaggerated show of laughter, “You’re worse than Stricklander.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment!”

“You really shouldn’t.”

“Quick! Ask me what’s on the other side of Killahead Bridge!” she set up for a joke.

There was a flash of changeling light nearby, which set off a colorful wave of other half-breeds changing as if part of of an impromptu wave - which turned out more likemini fireworks of color in the vein of a scatter plot graph traveling from one side of the room to the other.

“Beautiful!” yelled Otto despite of himself.

“What?!”

“Nothing.”

“Isn’t it beautiful? We only managed to do a proper wave once - but this way looks much better!”

“Have you seen Stricklander?”

“What?!”

Otto motioned horns over his head with his hands, but was elbowed inadvertently mid process.

Chakraborty shrugged and nursed her drink. With a sigh Otto morphed his features to look like Stricklander’s. Recognition struck her fluttering eyes, and glowed on her face with a nod, and a coy tap on her nose. Satisfied Otto morphed back before any casual observers started to ask for party tricks.

“I last saw him at the jeep!”

“A jeep?!” Le Fay help us all, he thought, and more importantly the half-breed for bringing it - Kilroy indeed.

Unsure if Otto heard her Chakraborty yelled close to Otto’s ear again. He was starting to worry she might have developed tinnitus over the years, though in her defense it was very loud as it is, “There are bets on how many half-breeds can fit in it! We’re doing three different rounds; troll form, human form, and up to the half-breed!”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Yes it is meticulous! You should join in!”

“Where?”

“What??”

Otto pantomimed searching, she pointed to a distant corner of the room and motioned Otto to hurry, “There is still time!”

“It was good seeing you again!”

“What?!”

Otto initiated a friendly hug, and Chakraborty laughed in his ear, “I’m still going to win!”

The jeep wasn’t as hard to get to as Otto initially thought it’d be. It was harder, he found,  get an answer out of the changelings running the foolish endeavor.

A pair of them were in a heated debate as to whether or not it’d count if they removed the engine or not.

“We could fit three in there tops!” said a tall changeling shaking a clipboard.

“We haven’t got all moonlight!” cried one of the already thirteen changelings in the jeep.

“What want to remove the tires too?” said the tall changeling’s debate partner.

“It’s considered ‘inside’ isn’t it?!”

“Shigir’s horns! We’re not trying to hide the Balaga Eggs! Would it even be considered a jeep without an engine?”

“It’s not as if it’ll suddenly turn into a ham sandwhich without it, Markal!”

“Excuse me! For the _final_ time, has anyone seen Stricklander?”

“Ah! Hessian! I didn’t see you there - apologies!” said Markal, genuinely sorry. Otto set his shoulders firmly all the same, not appreciative of the title.

“Have you had anything to drink?” asked the clipboard wielding changeling - thinking alcohol is a good a means of getting others to join in the betting circle as any.

Otto ignored this, “Chakraborty and Stricklander were here-“

“That was hours ago!”

Otto internally sighed, “Do either of you remember where our _Esteemed Leader_ hobbled off to? A direction?”

The two pointed in different directions, contemplated the other’s reasoning, and pointed again a second time. Which was as helpful as the first time. A chorus of ‘Drink Otto! Drink!’ was slowly starting from the jeep. Making it a good cue to leave silently. He eyed for the quietest place he could find, for some piece of mind.

It was found by the chandelier where changelings were trying to jump to and try and get others to jump to as well. Not so far from the location, on a surprisingly overly un-used couch; was a familiar pompadour which Otto very much desired to buzz bald.

To use a common place phrase, it always felt like a coin toss to Otto as to which Stricklander he was/ or would be talking to. Granted it was never one hundred percent one or the other, but shades - so better phrased, the real question would have been; which shade would be more prominent?

Would it be the mischief maker of the early campaign pulling stunts of insubordination to get double rations from the mess tent, and phrasing his words to his Commanding Troll Officers of winning ideas and strategies ‘they’ would come up with, (that would lead to less casualties on the field- and more importantly less changeling deaths). A Stricklander who just wanted to see to the end of what was then described as a would be ‘short’ war, as a nobody seeing what they can get away with. A nobody who would help other nobodies with dark humor, cynicism, tricks, and enough paradoxical lack of self survival to stick his neck out for others - perhaps born from an excitement to be with others like himself.

Or would it be the Stricklander who was given the bloody taste of power after it was revealed that said Commanding Troll Officers didn’t come up with said winning strategies - he did. Tasted such powerful blood, and realized how much he could accomplish and do with it. With new rank came, new responsibilities, new obligations - and most fearful of all; new expectations, on top of still wanting to survive the war. He had to become a Stricklander who learned (the hard way) how to visibly care less about his fellow half-breeds. Like a maturing adder shedding its old ways in favor for a better tomorrow. Who realized the only way to further the system was become part of a system. A tomorrow once whispered to him through the chords of a lire that lead to the occult, stoking his ambition and goals all the more.

These years it had become harder and harder for Otto to tell, these past few months all the more. Or could it be that even after all these years Stricklander is still writing the book in ‘faking it till you make it’?

Rounding the corner Otto noted their _supposed_ leader was wearing what Stricklander would consider the best 1860’s Western European gentleman fashion had to offer, if anything he looked ready for an audience with a prince, (the medals were a bit much - as was Stricklander on most occasions). As Otto approached he could barely begin to imagine what Stricklander was thinking about with such a stern serious face, watching the chandeliers and the changelings that laughed on it, with a finger that grazed over his lip absently.

However Strickler’s thoughts weren’t as deep as Otto tried to guess - but rather; he was wondering why on the crust of the Earth was Barbara plucking her eyebrows at this hour. He didn’t have to wonder too long, Strickler knew whose name held the blame. “ _Wanda_.” he mumbled into his drink with a low grumbly rumble in his throat that made the liquid in his glass shimmer with vibrations.

It was the motion of Otto clicking his heels to attention in his peripheral vision that returned Strickler’s thoughts back to the Janus Order. Anger or not Otto was always one to follow a certain order of things.

“Otto, there you are. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t turn up! I called you know.”

“I know.” said Otto, beside himself and unable to decide which frustration based emotion to feel first.

“You missed the starting reception. It went very nicely - there was even a nice requiem of silence for those who played their last trick.”

“And are you in the process of performing yours?” steeled Otto as best as he could, despite the nervous giggle forming in his throat.

Strickler stared back cooly, slowly raising his glass and leaning into the back of the sofa, extending his relaxed arm as well. He gazed at Otto as snakes gaze at birds, calculating the time it’d take them to take off and fly.

“What possessed you to pull such a stunt?” Otto went on, doing his best to repress a giggle, “You know the Council hasn’t reached a verdict-“

“Oh I know.” Strickler stretched a smile across his gaunt face, “Believe me.” Otto pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his brow and forehead. “In fact - I’d hope this soirée would help on their decision process.”

Otto lowered the handkerchief slowly, “Bribery.” he realized.

“Is a word that could be used - perhaps.” Strickler swirled his drink, casually watching the liquid move about. “Consider it a taste test of the promised cake to come. Besides its harder to dispose of the well liked in charge.” Especially those secretly recording what could potentially be used as blackmail in the future. His eyes glowed beneath his brows mischievously, and proud, “I _am_ still in charge until decisions are made.”

“You think a party will mask your ambitions? Cover the past ruthless-“

“We all did what we had to. There’s no moral high ground here, Otto, don’t even begin to _pretend_ like there ever was. You’re in the suck just as much as the rest of us.”

“But I’m not enough of a _scharlatan_ to mask it mein Freund.”

“I’ve always liked the way that word sounds. _Charlatan_.” he repeated though a bit more French.

“When the Council-“

“-Do you want to try to stop this party Otto? Will you _deny_ our fellow half-breeds a _party_?” He motioned to the crowd - and as if on cue a wave of scattered changeling light glowed through the room. It casted half of Strickler’s face in multi colors, the other in shadow, “Go ahead and try.”

Otto looked into the crowd; into the laughing faces, the distant drinking songs that meshed horribly with the music coming from the speakers, the swaying and dancing, the nonsensical tricks and mischievous fun.

“No.”

“Pity.” went Strickler, masking his relief in his cool demeanor, “I was in the mood for a show.”

Otto stood in silence for a while, Strickler nursed his drink thinking - and hoping, the conversation was finally over and they could enjoy-

“This is dangerous all the same mein Freund.”

It took everything for Strickler not to throw his glass at Otto, but why waste such good grappa?

“Something could happen!” Otto pressed on.

He wasn’t wrong, but the fact that Otto didn’t think he had considered that stung. Precautions were in place - even every fetch was rounded up and locked away incase some halfbreed fool hot on mischief and thinking themselves as clever as Shigir started yelling to the other side to the Darklands. 

The plucking sensation long since stopped on Strickler’s brow, and he wondered if Barbara was making coffee - or finishing. Otto said a few other good concerns he had already thought of - and grew very weary of this debate. Conniving aside, Strickler had genuinely hoped as many half-breeds could enjoy such a rare freeing night - Otto included.

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us.”

“Dummkopf!”

“It eluded us then, but that’s no matter -“ he pointed with his drink to the chandelier filled with cackling changelings, “tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…”  
“Drunken dramatist!”

“And one fine morning -“

“Why won’t you listen?!”

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

“Would you stop quoting Fitzgerald ironically for a _moment_?!” Otto nearly snarled, twisting his handkerchief in knots in his hands. It was nearly at risk of straining the sweat it had previously collected.

“What are you going to do now Otto?” there was a softness in the question and Strickler’s tone that disarmed Otto. “Remember when we’d joke about what we’d do after the war - like it was some impossible thing?”

Otto paused in silence for a breath, “It certainly felt like it.”

“Do you still want to be a cheesemaker?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Not enough to sing Merlin and Hog.”

A genuine giggle - not born from nerves - escaped Otto. Strickler smiled internally into his drink. “You still _remember_ that?”

“I’m sure Leon is around here somewhere, we can see how much he remembers too.”

Otto nodded into his handkerchief, “Oh, the memory, what a thing…”

A long silence was shared between them. It was peaceful, and Otto didn’t seem as agitated.

“I don’t think I’ll be a farmer personally. Teaching turned surprisingly more charming than I had imagined, but I do fancy the idea of a sailboat.” said Strickler, looking off.

Otto sighed and slouched into the sofa, relenting at last. Wordlessly Strickler poured a glass of grappa, from the bottle he had tucked under a cushion, and passed Otto the glass. More silence followed, they stared in the same direction together watching the chandelier.

Finally Otto took a sip and without turning his head said , “You won’t have as much help like being on a karve, sounds complicated. Think you can manage?”

“More than Louise can manage the stunt he’s trying to pull.”

Their heads followed in unison the changeling in question, Louise, as he rose to the overlook’s edge grinning mad as the surrounding changelings coaxed and cheered him on. Louise jumped for the chandelier, and fell. The other changelings on the chandelier hollered in good natured laughter. By sheer impulse and motor memory Otto and Strickler clinked their glasses together, and took a sip.

The silence lingered again, another wave of changeling colored light started up. Somewhere someone was trying to see how many bottles they can stack and carry.

“This changes nothing you know.” said Otto stubbornly.

Without a change of expression Strickler looked at Otto dead serious and _changed_ to his troll form without warning.

Otto nearly choked, he should have seen it coming really.

“By Le Fay’s light.” he cursed looking to the ceiling for help and support during such a trying time as Strickler’s bad jokes. Muttering on, “I should have known, Le Fay knows I should have known.”

Stickler kept cackling, after all half the fun of a ‘bad’ joke was watching the disturbed and angry reactions of the poor souls its delivered to.

“If you and Chakraborty start a stand up comedy routine it will be too soon.” Strickler showed no signs that he’d stop laughing soon. Otto smiled despite himself, “I’ll sooner sling myself to the sun - I mean it! Absolute mad half - would you stop laughing?!” Otto chortled going for a friendly troll punch to the arm.

Strickler caught his hand before impact, it was one blow Barbara didn’t need to feel - nor ever should. Wiping a tear from his eye Strickler smiled, “Did you run into her?”

“Chakraborty? I did - and her saber.”

“Pleasant surprise, that. I didn’t think she’d be able to make it. Who knew it’d take an abandoned gyre under a temple and a hop to Big Bear Mountain.”

“How long have you been planning this?”

“Since you threw me into the Council meeting.”

“Ah.” Otto nursed his drink, “Sure didn’t take your time then.” another set of shared laughter followed, shedding a little more of their callused friendship these long years caused. During the next colorful changeling wave of light Strickler flashed back to his 1800’s court attire wearing human form. The medals clinking over his breast as he adjusted his collar some. Strickler always enjoyed high collars - one of the reasons he favored turtlenecks.

“Were those really necessary?” Otto couldn’t help but ask. Lifting one of the medals.

Strickler finished the rest of his near empty drink, and poured himself another, “Absolutely not.” he chuckled dryly.

For Stricklander, (and he rarely thought himself as so aside from battle or in need of a proverbial Hail Mary), didn’t consider his involvement in human wars as being part of their wars - but an obstacle. For him it was always the one long war, and the humans who’d make things difficult. Birthing deeds that needed to be done to maintain a means to an end and a presence in both worlds.

Some examples being, but not limited to, in the vein of; ‘War of Roses? More like please stop fighting, get off this damn field for one minute so we can cut off these troll runaways that stole bridge pieces and might alert Vendal to our existence’ and ‘Oh? The majority of the trolls made a diaspora to the New World to Plymouth? Better start learning shipping trades - now where in the New World did they - oh? There’s revolution in the wind of the colonies? How convenient! How subtly convenient!’ and ‘Great set up in the catacombs of Paris if only your countrywould stick to a leader for _one_ decade - ah is that Napoleon on the rise? Well stability is stability - or so we assumed.’ and ‘get on boats you can fly if it sinks’ and ‘Gyres all blocked? Steal this c-plane skies are too crowded these days to fly in troll form anyways, unless the metal death trap you’re strapped to gets shot down.’ AND ‘ oh OH its essential for you to be in this flying metallic goliath of a death trap, once again its the only way, Bular and Gunmar are waiting. Results, results. What do you mean the flying metallic death trap the size of a WHALE, oh so large in the sky, got shot down? How? Perhaps because its huge and in the sky. Humans have no business being airborne -That doesn’t change the fact that a handful of the paratroopers were ready, but so was their enemy - you only have two arms - can only carry, only save, only keep a few from- 

Zoom zoom zoom zoom zoom

“Walter?” he heard Otto say distantly over the engines- _music_. It was so strange hearing him say that.

“Pardon?” Strickler cleared his throat, and pretended not to notice that the grappa bottle was still in his hand (for who knows how long), waiting to be corked. “They’re just reminders. Rubbish _metals_ for rubbish deeds.” he cheered cynically, some of them weren't even his, morbid souvenirs. His chest felt a little heavier. “Here have some more.” went Strickler, refilling Otto’s glass despite his protests. “Did Chakraborty tell you about the jeep?”

“Oh…yes, saw it on my way over.” Otto politely looked away and gestured in a random direction.

“When you passed it, did you, by any chance, spot how many half-breeds were in it?”

“I’d say…probably thirteen.”

“Any decision on the engine?”

“Are you suggesting they’ve been on that argument the whole time?!”

Coyly Strickler tapped the side of his nose, “So much so Chakraborty and I made a bet of our own.” Strickler lifted his glass, “Engine or no?”

“Well they were still discussing it when I was there.”

Strickler clicked his tongue and lowered his glass. “Then the race is still on.”

“Le Fay help us. Its Scandinavia all over again.” Otto snickered shaking his head and sipping some more grappa and licking his lips - completion a little rosier. “If General Vale could see this now.”

“He’d ask who the new changeling in the outfit is.” snorted Strickler with a nudge to Otto’s side.

“Not my fault I’m good at what I do.” went Otto, very proud.

Strickler’s shoulders shook with restrained laughter. “You had him running around in circles!” he appreciated, wheezing, “For half the march he thought you were three different changelings!”

“Serves him right for always being too proud to know or care - Le Fay forbid him to be wrong!” Otto laughed, they clinked glasses, nearly spilling some of their newly poured grappa,

“Remmember - sssshh!! Sssh!! Remember when one- listen! When one of his underlings thought half-breeds were spawned from Orglack’s bacterial _sneeze_?!”

“Didn’t you start that rumor to begin with mein freund?”

“Oh I can’t remember- I am still convinced you started the headless horseman rumor though!”

“Me?” went Otto feigning innocence badly.

“A Hessian rider dragging a cannonball- who else!”

“I don’t like that association anymore, personally.” Otto hiccuped into his handkerchief.

“You’re right - I’m sorry Otto.” said Strickler trying his darnedest to look serious.

“Besides! I panicked, the road was supposed to be clear! Bumbling humans!”

“Bumbling humans…” Strickler agreed into his glass, with an expression that danced on the border of wistful and dopey. Bumbling in the way they can fuddle over such well thought out plans. Oblivious to what they leave in their wake. The way red hair can be so entangling, a smile can be so disarming, a kiss can shake a geode’s core.

“So, so much has happened since General Vale.” said Otto in a rare show of wistfulness himself. “If it wasn’t for him, for that march to regroup with-“

“Hope someone built a stone latrine with his parts.” cut in Strickler, unsure he could handle hearing the rest of what Otto was going to say. 

Otto nodded grimly, a sour face forming, “Menace.”

They started to sit in silence, festering on the long dead general, when a reminder in the form of two young changelings tripping over the back of the sofa, and onto them returned Otto and Strickler to the present, and the party at large.

“Oof!” Strickler raised his glass away from himself to minimize the spill of his grappa, Otto was a little luckier in this endeavor.

“Occupied, I’m afraid.” went Otto readjusting his glasses. Neither of them recognized the young half-breeds.

So filled with shock and embarrassment the pair jumped closer to each other, as if fearing being separated.

Strickler barked with laughter, “I’m sure they couldn’t help dropping by.”

“Stricklander, please.” said Otto flatly.

“All the same, we’ve hogged this good sofa long enough. And I’m sure they have more interesting intentions for it. Come Otto, lets see if we can find Leon.”

Wide eyed, the young pair watched as their leader and commandant shuffled and swayed to their feet. Otto hiccuped into his handkerchief again, before waving it at Strickler, “But first!” Otto raised his glass, “To General Vale!”

Strickler nodded in sarcastic solemnity, glass raised as well.

The pair on the sofa were very lost; one raised their bioluminescent arm in a cheering motion to join in, the other lowered it slowly - not wanting to draw more attention to themselves. It was the same experience as snorkeling next to a reef to find clown fish, and finding sharks instead.

Together Strickler and Otto clicked their glasses and in unison both said, “Choke.” before knocking back their drinks, afterwards they blew raspberries and gestured grandly skywards.

Cackling to themselves the old half-breeds strutted off in search for further mischief, and Leon, leaving the young ones to do mischief of their own, and the remainder of the grappa to finish.

The rest of the night was a happy blur. The last thing Strickler remembering coherently being the sound of bells and tambourines calling forth a round of La Cambiatella. A dance of half-breed invention.

A large amount of space opened up for those who knew the dance well to help start it off. Unsurprisingly a good amount of the older generation entered into the circle. Otto and Chakraborty were already walking to the center putting hanging little bells on one another. Otto fumbled slightly with the bell he was trying to tie on Chakraborty’s horn on her nose, all bioluminescent and glowing. It was tradition in a pairing for one to be in troll form and another to be in human.

Strickler paired with Leon- who was _adamant_ that Merlin and Hog never happened, despite having sung a bit earlier that night. Strickler may have recorded it for later use. Whether it was well recorded was for future Strickler to discover. He tried not to notice the amount of older generations there were (rather; how few), and was pleasantly surprised to see Karenna coax Zurougia to the center as well. Zurougia stepped with hesitation using a new prosthetic for their leg, Karenna gave a few encouraging nips at their ear. Strickler always suspected the two of them to be a pair, at this he smiled. 

Tambourines sprung to life, and the dance started. Much like the name suggests La Cambiatella is dance in the same style as a Tarantella, although with a lot of feet stomping (and tonight they hoped to wake the Darklands with their stomping). Although whenever a changeling would do a move that would involve linked arms, touching the other's waist or hand, and clapping one another’s hands it’d be customary to change form according to opposites. A human and a troll, like a constant cycle. The dance would go faster as it went on, switching partners, and making the changing process a little harder, and dazzling. Until finishing off with a large hand linked circle filled with changing opposites.

The more they danced the more younger half-breeds would join in testing the water’s around the circle’s edge before jumping in all together. Laughing with bells on their horns and wrists and ankles, kicking legs as high as can be, hanging on and changing together.

 

Chandeliers and caviar the Gumm-Gumms can’t touch us here!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *(The Lady of Fortune cannot offer me / Anything that can ease my ache
> 
> “I’ll always cherish the time of cherries, and the memory I keep in my heart.” )
> 
> **(These Romans Are Pigs : a ‘scandalous’ phrase Umberto Bossi said publicly during a time it was being considered to hold the Italian Grand Prix in Rome instead of the well known classic course in Monza. 
> 
> Another known phrase Bossi said on the matter being: “Monza non si tocca e a Roma possono correre con le bighe”  
> Translation: “One doesn’t touch Monza, and Rome can run [or race] with their chariots” )


	8. Sicilienne OP. 78/Dream Sweet in Sea Major/The Room Where it Happens/ Half-Moon River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He went consenting, or else he was no king...it was no one's place to say to him, "It is time to make the offering" "- Mary Renault, The King Must Die
> 
> "And a ship  
> A black freighter  
> With a skull on its masthead  
> Will be coming in" - Pirate Jenny, The Threepenny Opera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends, I hope you’re ready for a chapter that is tonally all over the place. Dear goodness. And yet, at the same time, I can’t imagine the chapter turning out any other way.
> 
> (In the rush to finally get this chapter out there, there may be a few typos, I'll come back and touch that up in time- until then! Happy reading!)
> 
> Happy Halloween!

ACT I  
[Continued]

Sicilienne OP. 78

 

           Janus Order

 

The rounded up fetches filled the room wall to wall, floor to ceiling. Stacked in a quick attempt at order and neatness. Like how children’s bedrooms are quickly cleaned when the child in question can go play after they’re done. Well enough to be done fast, and not be told by their parents to do the cleaning process over.

The little portals hummed and buzzed, alive with moving unseen particles - yet ever still. An electrical storm waiting to happen, birthed something so humble and small as a rock. Inscribed on this piece of Darklands rubble was but a word, with very distinct glowing handwriting: NAMES

 

_Stricklander stood in the middle of a wheat field on a hill. The landscape was all hills, large mounds of rolling earth one could easily mistake as mountains, at least until coming across mountains like the alps._

_On one side of the hill Stricklander saw the coast acres away. That large alluring body of water he’d dream of meeting sometimes, glistening like a tantalizing jewel. On the other side, the parked Roman Legionaries just a few kilometers shy of his home. Being at a safe distance, the boy felt confident enough to stick his tongue out at them._

_His stomach ran cold when a long whistle carried over the hills, followed by an “OoooOOOiiii!”_

_Thinking perhaps the very far away legionaries saw him, Stricklander ducked into the wheat stalks to hide._

_The cry came again, this time followed by a familiar, “Waltolomew!”_

_Stricklander raised his head a little more out of the stalks, sighed, and started his trot home. Hopping over a fallen olive tree in the process._

_A lanky man stood outside the house. His beard full and curly, the band around his head just barely managing to keep his hair out of his eyes. This man was his fathe- familiar’s father. A jolly man, with little to no sense where he should have sense - and enough idle wisdom to fill pitchers upon pitchers._

_“There you are boy. I was beginning to worry.” he stooped down, dropping his marching pack. His accent still heavy from the northern tribes he was originally from._

_The Roman soldiers waiting a few steps away stopped their impatient talking for a moment to eye Stricklander as he greeted his ‘father’. As if trying to calculate how long it would take for the child to be able to carry a spear and shield. Stricklander eyed them back, wondering how long they’d survive in the Darklands._

_“I told you he’d come.” his ‘father’ would say while he hugged Stricklander. His beard tickled Stricklander’s nose and cheeks, his breath carrying a scent of bad wine._

_“And here I worried you wouldn’t come to see your old man off,” his voice dropped low, as if to tell a secret. “Vel.”_

_Despite himself the disguised halfbreed smiled at the sound of his own personal praenomen. The northerner always made jokes about the amount of names those from the peninsula would have. It made the lump growing in Stricklander’s throat harder to swallow._

_“Where’s mother?”_

_“Inside - for the Roman’s sake.” his ‘father’ grinned._

_“Don’t they_ _have_ _enough soldiers? Why do they need you?” Stricklander asked. To maintain his childish guise, or so he told himself. “I saw loads from the hills.”_

_His father figure warily looked over his shoulder to check the soldier’s temperament - and if they were affected by the child’s words. Then back to his supposed child._

_“I’ll be of more help to you, your mother, and her mother this way.” he explained with a brave smile._

_Of course the father figure was talking about his significant debts that needed paying. Nothing like a war to fill a purse. The ‘family Strickler’ had hoped they would get past this upon returning to their peninsula origins. Significantly so after taking over Stricklander’s ‘uncle’s’ (from his ‘mother’s’ side) farm while he sailed to the Greek isles._

_“You’ll mind your mother - help her…and” his beard was getting soggier with tears, “and I’ll be back just in time for the next harvest.” he hoped aloud, gripping the child’s shoulders with some weight._

_“Promise? Cause mother…she’ll miss you. I know you fight but..a-and she gets mad, but if you’d just-“_

_“It’ll be a promise you can’t altogether hold me to…” he cupped Stricklander’s face, which was also a little damp. “but I promise Vel. To all the Gods I can name.”_

_They embraced again, Stricklander was hiccuping into his ‘father’s’ large ears something like tears. Stricklander could hear wailing from inside the house, a hand was pulling them apart. Someone exited the house armed with a pitchfork looking to stick it to either a legionary or her husband. She chose neither and instead embraced her lovable drunkard of a husband. Kissing and daring to curse the Gods softly between sniffles. Stricklander turned away rubbing his eyes. From the entrance his familiar’s grandmother watched the scene. She was a thinly woman, smart as a whip and good humor, with questionable morals. She stared at Stricklander. With that soft eerily knowing stare that the changeling could never tell if it was just age, or because she might_ _know_ _._

_Unable to bare anymore, Stricklander ran, ran between olive trees, ran until his lungs stung, ran until he was at the entrance to the family’s tomb. The archway emblemed and carved with snarling animals - he made sure to stay away from the recent iron made additions._

_Inside, the walls were painted with frescos of the family’s history. The proud marriage of Spartan and Etruscan that started it all off, generations old. The noble seafaring and summer wars. Depictions of the ancestors escorted by Vanth and Charun on their journey to the underworld to meet with Leinth and Aita while on the backs of dolphins._

_And at the back of the tomb, a large sarcophagus. The lid of the sarcophagus was a high relief of a happy married couple in their prime, embracing each other with wine and pomegranate -sharing a reclined sofa. At its base a small terra-cotta bowl with old wine laid before a carved snarling gorgon face. The gorgon depicted as a symbol of power. Protector of oracles._

_He stared at it for a long time, eyes still a little puffy with tears. The earth was shaking, and Stricklander could swear the gorgon face was growing larger - with eyes that twinkled between turquoise and green._

_It dawned on Stricklander he should make an offering._

_Somewhere in the dark a bag of rabbit bones jingled. More than one set of eyes was watching him._

_As he searched his pouch Stricklander noticed he was sinking into the shaking earth. Slowly, painfully, to be consumed - with only the snarling gorgon to plead with. Stricklander pleaded on and on, until his mouth was full of grimed up bones, dust, mud, and blood. Silence followed, a still lively silence, like walking out onto a snowy field. The snow, that nature's blanket, enveloping everything like a natural mute to the sounds of the world. Eerie, distant, cold._

_Entrapped in the earth Stricklander could hear voices muffled above him. Something about catapults, something about strategies, an untold secret._

_Long un-groomed nails. The sound of digging. Whispers from weed roots that sounded like whale calls._

_“Child.” said the roots, “You walk the path of bats.”_

_Stricklander, below the earth and bound, did his best and struggled closer to the surface, wriggle ever closer to the crust. Yet was powerless, and only able to yell worms._

 

Walter Strickler was still within the depths of the Janus Order, and no - he wasn’t within a twisted pile of dead bodies as the changeling initially thought (and panicked) when waking. It took a few breaths, and the wiggle of his toes to realize; the bodies were very much alive and familiar, and that his shoes and socks were missing. He groaned softly into his arm, curling into himself a little more. Hand tucked close like a hoarding dragon keeping a piece of gold close - which was in fact his phone. Idly he clicked the side to check the time, and was distracted by the name above a few received messages: Barbara. 

Gazing at the name was better than the time. He smiled and set the phone close again, risking to doze off with the happy thought of being contacted.

That is until the dawning question of ‘why’ nagged at his skull. What reason would she have to reach out to him risking to wake him if he hadn’t reached out for her first? Which could only mean a certain changeling drunk texted her.

Ironically the thought was dreadfully sobering, and it pulled away the remaining vail of drowsy sleep that hung over his eyes.

“Bloody brilliant.” he croaked licking his lips and swallowing. As much as Strickler wanted to this wasn’t the place to investigate further.

Slowly, not wanting to wake anyone, Strickler checked if anything of his was taken. Mercifully, aside from his shoes, everything was accounted for- including and most importantly the Inferna Copula. Even the stupid medals. Strickler chalked this rare show of honor among assassins to the feel good vibes of the party.

What followed was a small game of whose limb was whose while trying to remember how and why such a nesting pile formed.

He remembered the hour being very late, or exceedingly early (just shy of dawn). He remembered a group of them trying to convince Chakraborty that she couldn’t stroll about Arcadia with a brandished saber - no matter how hilarious that would be. That instead of badly attempting to return to one’s own residence it’d be better for everyone to just bunk and hole up together. Like a bed of nesting snakes. Hence why Chakraborty’s legs draped over him, why he was on top of Leon’s arm, why Otto made a pillow out of Chakraborty’s stomach while holding Louise’s foot- and so on.

Quietly Strickler untangled himself, doing his best not to disturb the others, and slinked out of the door to search for his shoes, some water, and something fried. The socks were to be forsaken, as he’d have a better chance at finding them in someone’s fecal matter.

The halls were quiet, though filled with muted lingering energy of the party, and the occasional retching sounds coming from the nearest bathroom. Strickler trailed his hand along the walls in both affection and a means to stand up straight. Every so often Strickler would take his phone out (in an attempt to read the time, he told himself), only to get distracted by Barbara’s name and quickly switch it off. Mind fuzzy with ideas of what she could have possibly sent him, and what he could have possibly sent. Le Fay please let it be nothing damaging, he hoped while hopping over a broken bottle.

Strickler found himself at the ballroom’s entrance. It was, absolutely, a happy sordid sight. Messy as can be, with other changelings strewn about one another, some having made nesting piles, others having made more private accommodations for themselves and their partner(s). With a wicked grin he walked on, hoping his shoes would be somewhere closer to water and food. There were a few more sleeping half-breeds on the way. At a rather revealing pair he considered for a brief moment to drape his jacket over them, but its hard to find such good material these days outside robbing a gallery or grave. Thus he consented to the next best thing; and dropped a pile of streamers over them instead. 

The canteen was, for the most part, particularly empty. It too with its fill of unconscious half-breeds. Strickler unlocked the kitchen with his skeleton key and drank the biggest cup of water he could find before rummaging for some eggs.

While waiting for the frying pan to warm up enough to drop a few eggs into, Strickler dared to check his messages at last.

“Noooooo, no, non, nein, nr, όχι, nee, nei,” he went on in other languages while slowly putting his head on the counter. He would have started hitting his head against it, if it wasn’t for the fact that Barbara would feel it too, due to the bond.

It would seem several audio messages were sent, and with it Barbara’s responses reading:

_Oh wow, I can’t believe you found it! How did that happen? Also don’t worry, you didn’t wake me up - Wanda called for an emergency shift._

an audio reply

 _Not sure what you said there, was it the rest of the file? Sounds kind of scratched up, or gravely. I played the first one to one of my patients while getting an IV ready. Don’t think they found it as amusing as you guys did, but it served as an excellent distraction!_

thirty minutes later; another audio reply.

_Are you drunk? Or do you normally spout random French?_

The frying pan was more than ready to cook a few eggs by then.

It wasn’t that bad, he tried to convince himself while already dramatically sliding down the side of the counter to the floor. He easily deduced what the first audio message was, as he knew he made a recording of himself and Leon (and perhaps a few others) singing Merlin and Hog. That would leave the mystery of the other two audio messages. Not to mention, how many changelings saw him send audio messages? Would he have to do damage control? Did other changelings send out messages? IT is going to have a field day if they did. No, he told himself, IT had prior warning about the party they were capable enough to handle anything should others have done something regrettable.

Strickler quickly checked about his phone to see if other messages were sent. Mercifully no, and no images either. How could this have happened? Strickler knew for a fact he left his phone on airplane mode just incase such an occurrence would happen. He was sure he accounted for everything. Though it would seem Strickler didn’t account for Drunk Strickler being able to turn off airplane mode. Then again Drunk Strickler once rode a horse over a church. 

With what little decorum he had left, Strickler cracked about four eggs into the pan, and half heartedly looked for some bread. Chewing on a bare slice while waiting, and listening to the eggs sizzle. The smell was bound to attract attention.

Grabbing two plates, he gifted himself, and the other plate each two fried eggs and moderately fried toast.

While chewing some toast he wrote on a paper towel a note that read;

_Congrats!_

_You found some eggs, now you are co-in-charge of cleaning up this mess. Please report to room 5B for further instructions. Or else._

_Signed, Lord Stricklander_

_P.S_

_Enjoy the eggs first. There’s more in the fridge. Drink water._

And placed it next to the extra plate of fried eggs and fried toast. Tucking the paper towel roll under his arm, and placing a pen hooked behind his ear, Strickler continued to walk about eating the rest of his impromptu breakfast while randomly making more notes along the same line, though written differently to fit the circumstances, such as;

_Congrats! You fell asleep in the middle of the hallway…_

_Congrats! You puked over my bust, or was at least found near the scene of the crime…_

_Congrats! You trailed toilet paper everywhere…_

_Congrats! You never did take the engine out of the jeep, I had such faith you would…_

And so on.

Along the way Strickler managed to find his shoes. They were tied together and reeked of alcoholic concoctions, and glug residue. It would seem at some point they turned into drinking mugs.

“Grand, just…wonderful.” he grumbled, throwing his empty paper plate away and picking up his shoes to carry at a slight distance from himself.

Heading for the main exit he spotted someone had graffitied and gave Nomura’s bust a Groucho Marx mustache and blackened in eyes. At this Strickler frowned and spent a bit of time licking his thumb and trying to rub the marks away. Thankfully it wasn’t done in permanent marker. The poor half-breed was already trapped in the Darklands with Gunmar himself, her bust didn’t deserve this, nor did her memory.

Strickler had always thought Nomura was a competent changeling with a good head on her shoulders and promise (when she wasn’t loosing her head to silly notions of course). In many ways he held a grandfatherly-esque affection towards her, in a rather ‘don’t disappoint me or you’re out of the will’ changeling sort of way. Granted there was no room for favoritism among changelings. He learned that lesson long ago. Stepping away from his work he frowned at the bust, it frowned back. 

 

That accomplished, Strickler exited the Janus Order, guffawed at the few more additions to the Gunmar mural, and found amusing irony that no matter how great a species half-breeds were, there was still something far more powerful that all creatures had to answer to - like the different ways one could draw a penis.

The early morning air was dewy, and clung to Strickler’s greasy face. He dared not wonder how he smelled, and hoped the smell won’t stick to his favorite suit. His feet curled on the cold pavement that had yet to soak in the morning rays of sun. He speed walked as fast as he could to his car without drawing attention to himself, upon passing traffic Strickler occasionally ducked behind a public mailbox or a side street parked car.

The last thing he needed was to be spotted in such a condition, less than ever from a passing Barbara - with his luck, well it happened once it could happen again.

Luckily luck had other plans for Strickler as he was only spotted by an old woman’s pot-bellied chihuahua. Dreadful yappy things, he thought behind a Subaru. Unsure why troll kind preferred to eat cats than such noisy creatures.

“Come along Maggy, it’s pee time.”

Strickler groaned into his hand, and groaned again when he caught a whiff of his own breath. 

“Yes, go pee Maggy.” he grumbled to himself while shuffling along the side of the Subaru ready to bolt the first chance he had.

“Ooooeeee that stinks.”

Correction. Only spotted by an old woman’s pot-bellied chihuahua, and a very young changeling still in diapers. Strickler frowned at the offending young one.

“I doubt you’re one to talk, pampers.” he drawled before peaking over the Subaru.

“Wut happened to you mate? Is that-“ the changeling sniffed close, “Someone had fun. You got enough glug vapors on yeh that you could knock a full blown troll over!”

“And I’m in a hurry to wash off said fun, so if you don’t mind Enrique…” he said hurriedly, shifting his weight while squatting. The chihuahua sounded farther away now.

“It’s KnotEnrique, actually.” he said adjusting his diapers proudly.

Strickler gave a quizzical look, stopping himself from shuffling behind the next car. “You actually like being called NotEnrique?”

“I don’t mind it so much. Especially if I imagine it being said like a _knot_ ” the little changeling made a vague tying motion “- y’know?” he chuckled before reasoning, “Life’s a pretty tangled place, and I’ve a right to make a name me own.”

A memory pinged at the back of Strickler’s head, of the day he first entered into a camp calling himself Stricklander like some makeshift jumble of cōgnōmen / agnōmen. He thought himself to be very clever to have thought such a name. Another part of it came from a dream- a soft voice calling him something like a name, that sounded like ‘lander’, but he’ll never be sure. It felt like a self invented memory made in dark times more than truth.

Thus, he formed Stricklander, ‘From a land, Strickler’. If he wanted to be obnoxiously Roman about it, he could have went with: Waltolomew [vel] Strickler Stricklander,(much to his familiar’s Northern father’s would be annoyance, if he had lived long enough to hear it). Not that the full Romanizing had the right endings, but Stricklandeous sounded far too silly.

“Ah.” went Strickler, returning to the present with an added pause, “I’m not sure how well that comes across when saying it out loud. Not much of an audible difference is there?”

KnotEnrique shrugged, “Frankly I don’t cares much, but I’ll know it whens I hears it.”

“Fair enough. Very Ann _e_ of you.”

“Hu?”

“Nevermind.” went Strickler before squat walking to the next car. “Good pun though.” KnotEnrique followed nonchalantly, not taking nearly as much precaution as the older changeling was taking.

“What’s with the get up?” KnotEnrique asked before he pointed to Strickler’s tied together shoes licking his lips. “You gonna eat that?”

“No!” he said as firmly as a hushed voice can manage, tucking the alcohol and glug soiled shoes as close as possible before it’d risk staining his suit. “There was…ah…bit of a party.” Strickler hesitantly admitted.

“WUT!”

“SHhh!” Strickler nearly clocked the young one with his shoes. He was glad he didn’t as KnotEnrique’s ears drooped slightly.

“Fine time to be on the goody-two-shoes side.” the diapered one said glumly.

“It wasn’t all that…” Strickler couldn’t bring himself to lie to the little one. It would have been an unbelievable lie anyways. “Look. I would have reached out to inform you, but you _are_ on the wrong - well, _other_ side of the river, as it were. I can’t quite risk that now can I?” KnotEnrique nodded, like a child understanding its not safe to play in traffic but still wishing they could experience it anyways. “Nor should you risk stumbling back to your crib and hiccuping between troll and human form.”

KnotEnrique gave a hesitant low mischievous chuckle. “As funny as that’d be.”

“No it wouldn’t.” corrected Strickler firmly, before admitting, “Yes it would- but that’s beside the matter.”

KnotEnrique kept chuckling until he stopped abruptly with an idea. “Ooo! I got it!”

“Oh?” said the older changeling while contemplating how fast he can stand up, and walk around a fire hydrant to get to the next car while looking not at all strange.

“I got it I got it!!” jumped KnotEnrique, hopping onto the fire hydrant in question.

“Yes? Go on.” said Strickler as he speed walked, and simultaneously picked up KnotEnrique while passing the fire hydrant.

“Well if I can’t join the party- oooh smooth try there _Bossman_.” KnotEnrique folded his arms.

Strickler looked innocently to the other side of the street. Grinning despite himself. “Good catch. Bit slow though.” he dropped the very young changeling as one nonchalantly drops a cat; unafraid they’ll hurt themselves in the landing. “And it looks like I’ve reached my stop.” he added while he fished for his keys. “Now was there a reason you-?” Strickler looked up and found himself alone again.

It would seem the little scamp was a little too caught up in the new idea of his. Whatever it was, it was bound to be festive.

Cloistered within his tan car, and safe from prying ears and eyes Strickler pulled his phone out and ogled at it. Chewing his lower lip he debated listening to his messages, already feeling something like a cringe seeping into his bones. Catching his reflection in the rearview mirror Strickler scoffed at himself, at how utterly childish he was acting. He wouldn’t even begin to comment on the shape of his hair.

He’ll listen to them while driving, like an adult.

The first audio message was just as he suspected; a recording of himself, Leon…possibly Otto and Chakraborty singing Merlin and Hog - interrupted towards the end by Louise saying in trollish “More drinks!” the audio stopped.

“Nothing _too_ horrible there..” he muttered turning down a road. When he told the story it was set in a dormitory whose’s to say a party in the background was too unbelievable. The song was catchy, and it was the three of them (Otto, Leon, and himself) that started the shenanigan.

Strickler moved on to the second audio message - or better put; the response to reading what Wanda did. The only redeeming quality he could say was that what he said was all in trollish, while Merlin and Hog was being sung in the background; “Wanda needs to get her act together. Emergencies is one thing, but constantly messing with a schedule is another! Hope the emergency isn’t too serious-” the audio cut off there.

So far the audio messages could be easily explained away, a fabricated lie already weaving itself in Strickler’s mind. It was the third one that really worried him. A poem by Jacques Prévert - Strickler groaned through out the entirety of hearing himself say;

“Trois allumettes une à une allumées dans la nuit  
La première pour voir ton visage tout entier  
La seconde pour voir tes yeux  
La dernière pour voir ta bouche  
Et l’obscurité tout entière pour me rappeler tout cela  
En te serrant dans mes bras.”

It would have been charming, if he wasn’t pissed out of his socks when he recorded it.

“Hell’s teeth, I am a bit dramatic…” he allowed himself to admit.

“if only a little.”

It must have been recorded in a quiet location. The bathroom perhaps, he thought while desperately trying to remember when he used one…or if there was another quiet place where Strickler could have sneaked off to. He glanced down at his shirt for any signs of vomiting, it would seem his suit was in the clear - if he did vomit he must have hit his mark very well.

Parking in his designated parking spot Strickler hesitated to re-listen to it again, perhaps picking up some sort of audible cue he couldn’t hear before, and trying very hard not to start groaning again. At a loss, and hearing his stomach grumble for more sustenance, Strickler collected himself and his things up to his apartment.

 

Safe within the enclosed confines of his apartment, he flung his keys to land somewhere over his shoulder, his phone to his couch, and delicately placed his shoes over some newspaper. Undressing his way to the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes in his wake.

A heavenly hot shower, a lot more water, tylenol with food later and Walter Strickler stood passing in his kitchen over his phone. The time arrived to explain himself, and his nightly behavior. The time kept arriving, as Walter continued to stare at his phone, and Barbara’s texts.

 _You could just call her_ , said a voice that sounded like an awful, horribly sensible idea.

 _She could be sleeping due to the late night/early morning out of nowhere shift. In fact she_ _should_ _be sleeping - let her sleep_ , reasoned a far more sensible voice that has had at least one cup of coffee under their belt.

 _Or you could just continue to stare at her messages_ , said the least reasonable voice - yet far more appealing.

An hour and two coffees later Walter sent the following:

_I reached out to Leon. If anyone would have a copy it’d be him, and lo and behold I was right! We face-timed, reminisced for a while…which led to a bit of inebriation, yes. Though it did make it easier for him to send me an audio file of it. Actually, its him blasting the cd on his speaker and recording the file on his phone. I’m sorry it all happened at such a strange hour. Leon is in a different timezone, and I should have expected we’d talk and reminisce as long as we did._

A half hour, and some toast later Walter received:

_Ah the power of old friends and drinking. No worries! You did say I’d be the first to know haha Are we still on for lunch?_

It was amazing she still wanted lunch with the impromptu shift she had. Though he was confident in her ability to take care of herself to know if a…date…would be too much or not.

The date still on, it behooved Walter to check in on his assassin through the ring, and was equally as happy as he was amused to find that not only did Angor Rot have the killstone he was also without his shadow-staff stuck in the middle of the desert. Bound to follow and hide in the shadow of a tall cactus all day until nightfall. Walter Strickler cackled maliciously, _if only someone knew his whereabouts and could help Angor. Poor Angor._

With that dark thought Walter went on to planning the rest of his day with such a skip in his step and a sense that everything was coming together splendidly. He had swayed the Order to his favor, and could focus on the Council. Jim was without the Killstone. Anger Rot, without his staff, was confined to the desert until he can cross its length - who knows how many nights that would take. And should Angor perish under the desert sun, well then the killstone will be lost to the desert, a fine hiding place indeed. Which would mean Jim would be either forever setback, or - favorably, give up his endeavor all together.

 

           Arcadia High School

 

To call the small voice telling Strickler, _perhaps gloating isn’t the best course of action_ , a conscience would be moderately correct. Except this conscious had the same sort of itchy annoying quality as the voice that told Strickler centuries ago, _look the commanding trolls will let it slide for only so much - being in Gunmar’s current favor or not_. A sort of annoyingly right kind of voice that made Strickler impulsively want to ignore it.

It is easier to imagine said ‘voice’ as if it is the same kind of voice that some hear that tries to convince you, _you don’t have to finish the whole pizza on your own in one sitting_ \- but you hear that voice for what it is, a challenge, and finish not only the pizza but half of the mozzarella sticks just for conceiving such a conscience - times ten.

In short, too good to pass up. Right?

For Jim’s sake, Strickler did his best to abide by said annoying conscience, and for a while he was doing a good job at listening to the annoying sound of reason. Even avoiding the Trollhunter on purpose.

At least until Claire’s friend, Ms. Wang, passed Walter on his way to his lunch date. To which he spotted Jim, and all rationality be damned. It was as if the school faded away and it was just him and Jim.

Like some super villain about to monologue to the trapped hero, as Toby would later put it when Jim would later confide in him what happened.

Walter Strickler was going to gloat. With a student. Whom he favored and refused to underestimate. Gloat, and publicly add something about his mother. At the cost of whatever redeemable respect the child had left for the ex-teacher. Which to be fair, there was barely little to anything left of anyways.

The deed done, impulse appeased, and breath mints actually acquired (which was an unexpected surprise), Walter Strickler walked away with a nagging feeling in his chest. Like something that’d start with a ‘g’. He felt it more when he heard Mr. Palchuck’s voice carry over the parking lot some sort of taunt directed at Jim. Strickler had to start calculating scrabble scores to keep himself from pivoting and giving Mr. Palchuck some _choice_ words.

Guilty - 10 points. Hypocrite - 19 points. 

What is more, half way to down the road to meet with Barbara, the child’s own mother, Strickler found himself realizing that he wish he had listened to that annoying voice of reason. Sure he was the Trollhunter, but he’s also Young Atlas, Jim…and not at all anything like the commanding troll officers of yore. Walter cursed his own pettiness while he parked, and tried to convince himself, “What’s a taunt among enemies?”

 

           Mr. Benoit, Lunch Date

 

“It wasn’t so bad. I mean it was bad, but it could have been much, much worse - and honestly that’s all anyone can hope for.” Barbara said as she finished her explanation of her impromptu emergency shift.

An on hand doctor had to leave for a family emergency, it was permitted because it looked as though the night would pass uneventfully. Unfortunately an hour later calm waters turned into a storm in the form of an illegal firework accident, and an unrelated accidental stabbing (on top of the patients already waiting to be seen in the ER waiting room). Enter Barbara.

“The hardest part of the night was actually leaving for work-“ Walter opened his mouth ready to fire some comment about Wanda, luckily (or unluckily) Barbara continued, “while knowing Jim wasn’t sleeping at home.”

Walter sat his cup down. A disbelieving, “What?” passed through his mouth.

The first thing Walter reasoned was perhaps Jim had sustained damages during his time with the Quagawumps - which would excuse the lack of being home and instead being in Trollmarket to heal. Not that the Trollhunter seemed to have sustained anything when he taunted him. Granted Walter was a bit more preoccupied with taunting Jim than caring or seeing details (at this he cursed himself again). The second thing he reasoned was; perhaps dealing with the Quagawumps took longer than anticipated ( _in that case_ , he thought to himself, _he should have prepared better, or have built a cartoony decoy at least_ ).

A weird amalgamation of internal dread, guilty bile, and curious paternal sternness accumulated inside Walter like a badly tied knot in his stomach. On one hand, he wanted to reprimand the needless worry Jim had caused, and on the other, the bigoted feeling of being the cause of it all.

“Exactly.” said Barbara, reading or perhaps projecting some recognizable paternal worry in Walter’s facial features. “Long calls and texts later I find out he was having a sleepover with Toby. Guess we’re foregoing prior note warning too now.”

“I see..”

“Though Jim _swears_ he sent me a text earlier about it.”

“Bad reception?” he guessed.

Barbara made a face of, _bingo -you got it_ , and adjusted her glasses with a sigh.

“Jim, well…from what I’ve been briefed, this behavior is because of his father walking out on us…remember the letter I told you about? It’s…all in there, apparently…” not that she’d seen it since she returned it (closed and un opened) to Jim. Barbara was spinning her cup around slowly from the handle absently, watching as the liquid swirled into a slight vortex within. “Its been years since Jim spoke about him, since either of us spoke about him…” she nodded medically, as if connecting unseen dots, “..so, I can see where it makes sense.” An anger was starting to form in her eyes, it was meticulous and sad (though to be clear, not a pitying sad). Like when one remembers an unnecessary explosion they witnessed. Or when a forest burns, a tragedy yes, but the soil is all the better for it and a healthier forest can begin to grow.

Walter watched powerless, folding and unfolding his fingers. Scouring his mind for something helpful. Unaware of the gold that could be found in his silence, and listening, and simply being. She watched his mental busying for a moment, and watched how it quieted when their eyes met. Barbara smiled, and Walter struck gold, and placed faith in listening being enough. He steadied his hands, and Barbara looked into her cup.

“To think that…that, _person_ can still cast his shadow on this family. If he wanted to stay, he would’ve stayed, but he didn’t stay, and honestly; thank goodness he didn’t stay, cause we’re better for it. He never deserved us.” Her voice had a timber to it. It was neither hot with rage or glacially cool - but something on a level all on its own. Steel was what came to mind, sharp and succinct. A meticulous sort of steel the led to the removal (or better; dissection) of one’s presence in family photo albums. “I’ve given up on trying to understand that man’s reasoning years ago. I’ve stopped pretending to understand, because there isn’t _anything_ to understand. _Nothing_ to justify. We were too young, he wanted to leave - so he left. He left so, _easily_ …” Her voice trailed off, and she felt herself growing quiet with the distance she placed between herself and checked emotions.

Walter sat in that silence with her, patiently, supportively. There waiting for when her thoughts returned to the present.

Before either of them realized it, they were staring. As they stared the steel in her was sheathed. Her opponent wasn’t here, Walter was, and her blade was unneeded here. 

At some point Barbara had stopped spinning the cup around. Softness creeping in her voice. “…as much as I’m not a fan of giving him much thought, I shouldn’t have assumed Jim was past it, he always made an effort to-” she laughed at herself, “guess it’s in the description- effort.”

“Not sure if it’s fair that you’re so hard on yourself.”

“Oh, I know.” she said, like someone who knew, but was stubbornly hard on themselves anyway.

He smiled, and Barbara placed a bit more sugar into her tea.

Walter leaned forward ever so slightly, and said “As much as one might like to imagine they know someone, or…might guess what they might do, in the end it is impossible to know what is truly going on in someone’s mind. If there was no communication about it before, how could you possibly have known?”

“Unless you’re a mind reader.” Barbara tried to counter, not willing to admit he was right just yet. It did also add a bit of lightness to the conversation.

“Are you?”

“Pretty sure that comes with the mom description.” she quipped.

Walter, amused, patiently stared back.

“No I’m not a mind reader…” she finally admitted with a sigh and a small smile. “…but I _do_ have eyes on the back of my head, no matter how blurry the vision is.”

“Another reason to try placing your glasses behind your head.” he smirked.

She rolled her eyes while a blush formed on her cheeks. 

“Is, Jim speaking to anyone about this? Professionally?” he carefully asked with sincerity.

“Yeah, he’s been talking to the new guidance counselor about his father.”

“Guidance counselor?”

This was interesting, as far as Walter could remember he had rarely seen Jim stepping into the guidance counselor office. Granted those were the days Jim would sooner step into his office.

“Yes, the one you recently brought in-“ started Barbara.

Instantly Walter thought of the school counselor Merideth. She was a competent counselor, big owl like glasses and short curly hair that made her seem younger than she was, with an innate intuition that made her seem older than she was all at once.

“-Mr. Blinky?”

Walter choked, and tea found a new canal to flow through; his nose. Once again Walter was having trouble with the concept of swallowing, and started coughing. He waved at Barbara’s concerned “Are you okay?” and did his best to find composure quickly.

“Mr. Blinky?” he managed to say at last.

Ah.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

The surrogate father.

He could see the logical sense to it, despite Blinky not being licensed. And if Jim is talking, then that’s good. 

Something was needling Walter Strickler, he tried to ignore it. Instead he took a deep sip of his tea.

“I’m sorry. Here I am on a date, going on about Jim’s father.” she flushed with realization.

Not that Walter thought there was anything to be sorry for. As always, he felt honored if anything. They have been seeing each other and growing a friendship since Jim and Toby were busted at the museum, and in all that time she rarely discussed her ex-husband.

Granted there were other things to discuss, and enjoyably chat over the phone when neither of their schedules aligned for them to meet. Discussions like;

‘whether or not it is better to kill a spider, or to just scoop it up and chuck it out’

‘organ farming, immediately followed by puns about organ players’

‘Whether or not spell check is inhibiting the natural evolution of language, because gosh darn it some students can be very inventive when trying to spell something.’ This was followed with a discussion of Chaucer and his Canterbury Tales, and Barbara trying to read aloud some online version as it was originally written, and spelled, while Walter looked for more red ink for his fountain pen. When his amused giggles would get too far Barbara would, in good humor, snark back, “Damn it Walt, I’m a doctor not a linguist.”

‘The discussion of space, technology, Star Trek, and the marvel of human ingenuity to invent.’ A discussion which later inspired Walter to do the Vulcan hand sign of ‘live long and prosper’ randomly one day in the middle of class to see who was paying attention, and immediately denying it if it was brought up.

Those students who saw it and tried to convince other students were never believed. For Toby, who saw Walter do it, it forever underlined the fact that their history teacher was most certainly a changeling.

There were even rare instances Walter and Barbara would fall asleep while on the phone with each other.

The list could go on, and with every interaction Walter Strickler found himself feeling a greater and greater sense of emotions he now defined as ‘admiration’, ’deep fondness’, and ‘affection’.

So when Barbara next said, “I really don’t know how to do these things.” while adjusting her glasses. Momentarily believing her own insecurity, and mentally using her past experiences as proof to believe said insecurity.

It was with a swell of emotions that Walter, reaching his hand out to rest gently on hers, said softly,

“You’re doing just fine.”

Together they shared a look smiling into each others faces. It was as if their surroundings faded away. There was no need to take notice of passing cars, a passing waiter, a floating Toby that Claire was desperately trying to catch, a skateboarder who kick flipped a little too close to the curb, or the way the sky was darkening with rain heavy clouds.

Together, holding hands (which was interestingly exhilarating to do so openly for so long) they talked on. Though just when nerves might risk one of them from letting go, (out of shyness, or overcome emotion) somehow the other would instinctively give a little squeeze of encouragement.

They talked about refreshingly ordinary things; culinary escapades, theater both musical and other, continued inside jokes. At some point they tried to figure out what they each last remembered in the Star Trek episode they had last tried to watch together over the phone, (it had been quite some time since they did this too).

There was also Miss Janeth’s latest theatrical request of ordering yellow umbrellas for ‘Stomping in the Rain’.

“Unfortunately it just isn’t something the school can accommodate. Fifty yellow -“

“ _Canary Yellow_.” Barbara corrected with amusement, and a good natured imitation of her son’s math teacher.

Walter sighed dramatically, “Yes thank you - it is just…too much I’m afraid.”

“It’s great so many students want to be part of the production though.” Barbara leaned.

Walter nodded proudly. “ _True_ very true, though that’s more to Miss Janeth’s credit really.”

They changed the way their fingers laced together while Barbara said, “What if the students brought their own umbrellas from home and had a big paint party?”

Walter considered this while Barbara tried to politely hide a yawn. It would seem her sudden work hours were catching up with her, no matter how much green tea she drank. Despite having managed to catch some sleep before coming to meet with Walter, there’s a significant difference between sleeping at the hospital and comfortably at home without the white noise of distant medical hustling.

“That could work nicely…not sure how pleased Mss Janeth will be.”

“The different sizes might affect the choreography?” Barbara guessed wisely.

Walter hummed a ‘yes’ while a smile sprouted, “Something like that. She can be a very set person. Makes for a good math teacher, sure..”

Barbara turned another incoming yawn into an exclamation and said, “Ah golf! See if there’s a golf course that’d like to donate. The chance of rain is always..” she looked up, noticing the sky at last, “ _usually…_ ” unfortunately the motion caused a yawn like reaction. Quickly she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Barbara, I think you’re tired.”

“Don’t change the subject.” she blushed.

Amused, he raised his brows. “Alright. I’ll look into the golf course idea. You’re a genius.” Barbara twirled her hand at the wrist in a theatrical mock; _thank you_ , and Walter pecked her other hand before repeating, “Barbara, I think you’re tired.”

She smirked into her hand using it to cradle her head and gave an accepting nod. To which they decided to postpone going to the museum and made their tender farewells, multiple times.

Thus Barbara headed home, and Walter headed to the Janus Order, to at least look like he was helping with the cleaning process at least. Or so Walter Strickler thought.

Upon entering the travel agency his phone vibrated from his pocket. He glanced into the camera hidden inside the world map, and decided he’d step outside to see who it was rather than risk some sort of zoom and enhance from the cameras hidden inside the travel agency.

Walter was glad to have prudently done so when he checked and saw it was Barbara who was calling him. He returned to his car so not to be overheard.

“Barbara? Is everything alr-”

“Walter, did you feel and earthquake or anything?”

It wasn’t a totally unbelievable question to ask, California was no stranger to earthquakes, and sometimes it can happen so specifically that neighbors a block away could sleep through it. Or so subtly that it could make one question the sudden vibrations on a table to be indeed an earthquake, or construction a block away.Granted this is in terms of very small earthquakes. Its hard to miss the big ones. 

All the same Walter stitched his brows together worriedly, for reasons beyond the human scope of things, “Can’t say I have…” he started making theories his mind. Perhaps something happened in Trollmarket, or worse that horizon theory Giselle told him about.

On a less dramatic level, perhaps it was something Jim related-with youthful shenanigans gone awry.

Barbara sounded exasperated to say the least, “Well, I can’t think of any other reason why my furniture is just _jumbled_ about my living room and-”

“What?”

“…no not just the living room - what _happened_ here?” she added distractedly.

Walter started to hear her huffing through the speaker, moving furniture. “You’re not going to rest until everything’s fixed, are you?” a few more huffs and the sound of a table leg risking to scrape the floor was his only answer.

“I’m coming over.” he said swapping the phone from one ear to the other while he placed his key in the ignition.

This got Barbara’s attention again, “Wh-what? Walt I couldn’t-“

“Non negotiable, I’m afraid.” he said pleasantly

“ _Walter_.”

“I can’t hear you, too many spontaneous firetrucks passing through.”

“ _Walter_ I can _hear_ there isn’t-“ she said trying to sound serious despite the giveaway of amusement that peppered her voice. He could practically hear her smirking. “Good grief. Drive safe.”

 

           The Lakes

 

As Walter parked and stepped out of his car he could tell at least from the electricity in the air; something magical had happened. He could read it from how goosebumps started to form on his human flesh, how the hair on the back of his neck started to prickle, and the phantom itch where his horns would be. Walter made a note of the rubble near the house’s foundation while he politely knocked.

A distant, “It’s open!” was his response.

He’d drag his feet on the entrance carpet, if it wasn’t draped over the upside down coatrack down the hallway.

“..well then..” was the only thing he could think of saying. Furniture was everywhere, and jumbled was the precise word to define it. It was like the inside of the house was hit with a whirlwind.

“Welcome to Oz.” grunted Barbara who was trying to fix the ottoman to be right side up. She had changed out of her scrubs and was now sporting gray sweatpants and a teal tank top.

“Oh is _that_ where I am? I hope 9am-5 Wednesday parking can apply to hot air-balloons too.” He quipped while hurrying to give her a hand.

“Har har. Use your legs.” she cautioned, before doing a quick double take, intuition pushing her to say, “And no comically faked back injuries.”

Walter closed his mouth with a bad impression of innocence. Looking more like a mischievous cat who conveniently lost interest in a game anyway.

There was no easy way of saying that a good portion of their afternoon was spent with the labors of moving furniture around, but there was laughter, more conversation, and occasional sing alongs. Though the music died down some during a tea and popcorn break.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the adults, Toby nervously paced in the Lake home basement trying to figure out what to do, while Claire peaked through the door in time to see Walter dip Barbara into a kiss. She quickly shut the door, face very red.

“Man oh man, Jim is going to double freak! Not only did we trash their house-”

“Technically the curse we escaped trashed it.” she corrected, face hiding in her hands.

“-His mom is home, cleaning up _our_ mess with…” he lowered his voice unsure if saying changeling names worked the same way as saying a fae name, in which they’d instantly feel talked about, “ _Strickler_.”

“At least he’s…helping?” offered Claire with uneasy optimism.

Toby gave her a deadpan stare, as if reading right through her, “They were kissing weren’t they.”

Sheepishly Claire nodded, and Toby flung his hands in the air in despair before shoving them into his pockets. Despairing more so for the fact that their actions was the catalyst that lead up to this predicament in the first place. They sat in contemplative silence for a while, unsure how to proceed. The silence broken by a string of laughter that caused them both to look upwards and at each other.

Toby made a face as if unsure what he was hearing. “Is that…?”

Claire fiddled with her thumbs and gulped. Curiosity getting the better of them, together they creaked the door open ever so slightly, thinking the worst - only to hear Barbara and Strickler doing bad William Shatner impressions for day to day things.

“Your- ah tea, dear lady.”

“Why -ah thank you, my - kind sir. I’d -ah offer we watch something, but…the tv..”

“Yes, it’s -still on…the floor.”

Claire and Toby starred at each other wide eyed, very much afraid of the laughter that could escape them if they broke that eye contact. Claire, as cautiously as possible, closed the door again. The two of them continued to try and say something, but no words would come except a pathetically enthusiastic, “Oh…my gosh.”

“I, don’t even know what to do with this information.”

“Heck. No one will ever believe us.” went Toby as if suddenly saddled with the weight of some truth the world wasn’t ready to know about yet. “Its the Vulcan hand signal all over again!”

“Toby…we should go.”

“But Jim-!” Toby gawked watching Claire descend the stairs to stand by the boiler.

“Will be disappointed when he finds out we didn’t manage the delivery, but its better than hiding the outcome.” another bit of laughter echoed from the living room. “Like, what can we even do? They’re here, they beat us to it before we could put everything back.”

“What if we get some kind of sleep powder and have them take a nap and we’ll just-“

“How would we move the _big_ furniture?”

“…Draal?”

“Is distracting Jim in Trollmarket _for_ us, remember?”

Toby frowned into the wooden stair panels. “I just, feel bad for causing a mess for Dr. L…she was already mad at Jim because of how late we were out. And like, Jim used sleeping over for cover - which is totally cool…I just don’t want Dr. L thinking I’m a bad influence or something, I mean…” he felt a slight lump in his throat while trying to think of a joke to mitigate the intense fear of disappointing or in someway lessening how Dr. Lake might think of him, despite knowing him since he was five. Perhaps it was an irrational fear, but the teen’s chest heaved slightly. There were so few mother figures in his life already.

Claire shifted where she stood, not confident as to what she could do or say to help the situation. She bit her lip and fussed with the hem of her t-shirt, shuffling forward. “Well maybe..” Claire started clumsily.

“I mean, not that she has anyway of knowing we caused this.” Toby thumbed behind him with a brace-y smile. It didn’t entirely reach his eyes.

He stood up and hopscotched down the stairs ignoring the concern in Claire’s eyes. She was ignorant of the fate of Toby’s own parents, a fate he didn’t talk about regularly, and when he did - he talked about it selectively.

The sudden whiplash of his demeanor only deepened Claire’s concern. “Look, I…I know I don’t know a lot about what you and Jim have been through,” Toby checked out the stacks of shoeboxes under the stairs. Claire pressed on, thinking of how well she knew Mary and Darci’s parents…perhaps even better than her own. After all, sometimes, you’re not always born to the parental figures you need. “but you guys are the dynamic duo and that’s not easy without sleepovers and parental mingling…you and Jim have known each other long enough, which..I think means you’ve known Jim’s mom long enough for her to know, you’re a good egg Toby.” Toby stared back appreciatively. Claire placed a stray hair behind her ear, brightening with a bit more confidence. Claire added in a good humored way, “We’re teenagers its like - spelled out in every movie we’re bound to drive parents crazy one way or another.” she gave a friendly punch on the arm, “Copy, uh, Warhammer?” she remembered Jim saying the codename once or twice.

He gave a friendly punch back, with a little sniff, “Copy.”

“Returning to the scene of the crime?” came a voice above them.

The youths froze, and jerkily looked up the stairwell to see Strickler leaning against the wall with his arms and feet crossed casually. “Dr. Lake is asleep.” he added, before any more panic could seize them.

“What did you do?” Went Toby protectively, jumping to the conclusion it was a forced sleep the doctor was induced to. Toby wished he had brought his newly weightless hammer.

“Not much.” Strickler answered distractedly, eyeing the Skath Hrun Claire was holding. Looking at it made his hands itch, he could feel the Pale Lady’s signature magic on it. It was like feeling a phantom hand walking their fingers over his horns. “The chamomile and work stress did most of the, well ‘work’.” He also appraised the young Claire, how effortlessly she held the staff despite being so new in her possession, and human. Despite it being Her creation. He wondered if the Pale Lady would consider this ‘young witch’ as a potential apprentice. Strickler always did have an eye for spotting unlocked potential, it made him think of Nomura. He frowned.

Toby, not entirely knowledgable to the world of teas, side stepped into Strickler’s line of sight, “Oh _yeah_? What’s the antidote?”

“The antidote, to _sleep_?” he asked back, trying to steady a dry laugh.

Claire whispered something in Toby’s ear. _Most likely an explanation_ , thought Walter.

Strickler inwardly sighed and placed his hands in his pockets. Originally he was going to continue placing things back in troll form while Barbara slept, before suspicion and a picture sent by KnotEnrique needled him to check the basement. “Well, are you going to help or not? I do believe this is your doing, is it not?”

Claire and Toby looked up with mixed suspicion and shock.

“How did you know?” asked Claire with an arched brow.

“A left over magical presence.” he started dramatically, before deadpanning, “and this.” Strickler raised his phone to show the selfie KnotEnrique took.

“That little- _Where_ did he even-“ grumbled Claire, the Skath Hrun started to darken with her growing anger, “how does he even _have_ a phone?!”

Toby ran his hands over his face disgruntled. “Whoa wha- wait a second, you guys _text_?!” Said Toby a little louder than he should have.

Strickler shrugged, while casually peaking through the door to check if Barbara still slept.

“Then what was the point with the whole Shigir paper thing?!”

“ _Volume_ Mr. Domzalski.” he warned with a stern softness that tended to get an entire classroom silent. “We either talk _softly_ , or you can lend a hand in cleaning.”

Toby frowned with mixed feelings. On one hand, finding more answers to the mystery might help…or play deeper into Strickler’s schemes, or he could help Dr. Lake have less to do when she wakes up.

“However, I will say this,” went Strickler, “The fact you’re asking why is a good start Mr. Domzalski. _A very good start_. I _won’t_ give you the answer. I can give hints.” he remarked, feeling this was beyond generous.

This only made Toby feel more annoyed. It reminded him of being told riddles when asking for help during a test. Unfortunately, Strickler wasn’t in the game of giving answers away. Knowledge is earned and fought for sometimes, and a commodity and currency other times. However, Strickler did enjoy being a guide, finding it constructive for students to have some answers naturally come to fruition. Especially deep lessons. 

“I’ll help.” said Toby miserably. He still felt guilty for causing distress to Dr. Lake. Turning to Claire he asked, “Claire, you still in?”

“Of course you dingus.” she smiled pocketing the staff.

“Wonderful!” Strickler smiled politely. “It’ll be a good help, not sure where all the little things go.” he admitted. “Ah, please refrain from setting the upstairs.”

“Why?” asked Toby.

“Well, I _will_ be taking credit for this when Barbara wakes up.” he said matter of factly with surprising bluntness, “To not do so would bring too much into question. And I for one, characteristically speaking, don’t feel comfortable setting private rooms straight that I have no business knowing about.” Toby and Claire shared a look. “It’ll be strange enough to have to explain how everything else is cleaned up without having to explain why rooms I’ve never seen before are as well.”

Toby shrugged a “whatever.” while still not grasping the problem there, or rather not wanting to. Claire agreed to the terms for both of them, and the three set about to cleaning the ground floor.

Strickler, despite having a trick shoulder, found lifting televisions and tables and other heavy objects quite easy. Especially compared to his battle go to of lifting trolls and dropping them from great heights. Sometimes, when a battle occurs on a particularly cloudy day, he’d even risk a bit of sun burning just to carry an enemy troll above the cloud line, watch them turn to stone, and drop them on their comrades. (For burning took a little longer to changelings as it did to full blooded trolls, and a quick change to their human form helped sooth most burns).

Claire would find herself staring. Intrigued. It was her first time seeing her ex-history teacher now principal in troll form. She found it studiously fascinating. She wanted to ask if there was some sort of mossy cushion at the bottom of Strickler’s feat that made him able to walk so silently. As far as Claire had noticed so far, most trolls when they walked seemed to be heard with a soft clink sound, like tapping cement with a tiny hammer. She also wanted to ask if he’d define his leathery top as a cape or a cloak, and if he really did have feelings for Barbara. Though perhaps the fact he was going out of his way to help clean was already an answer.

Toby would occasionally wave at Strickler and silently direct where a piece of furniture ought to be placed, or what was the correct angle, using big exaggerated gestures. He’d find it hard not to laugh when in response Strickler would deadpan a thumbs up.

It wasn’t often, but sometimes when Strickler would notice one, or both, of the teens attempting to lift something a bit too heavy, he’d speed walk over to take over for them.

Strickler noticed this more so from Toby, who seemed very insistent to getting as much done as possible. With a few glances to the occasionally snoring Barbara, it didn’t take too much for the changeling to guess why. In some past conversation with Jim he had mentioned Toby’s family predicament.

Walter sometimes caught Toby sneaking worried glances at Barbara, another more compassionate inward sigh found itself forming. _It would seem to be a day chock full about surrogates_ , he thought.

With the ground floor set back in good order the three of them returned to the basement, Strickler by then was in his human guise. Toby was the last one to return to the basement, as he wanted to leave a glass of water out for Barbara.  
“Well.” Strickler said pleasantly, adjusting his lapels, “That wasn’t so bad. Took less time than I thought it would.”

Toby dabbed his forehead with the back of his hand, and grumbled something under his breath about extra credit, which Strickler found moderately amusing. Claire took out the Skath Hrun effortlessly, she hesitated using it. Not wanting to be watched by the enemy. An understandable reason.

Strickler cleared his throat in the silence, and found himself saying, rather sincerely, “Your help was, much appreciated.” the youths shared a look. Before they could feel he really meant it, Strickler gave a little wave and said with a cryptic grin, “Stay alive out there.” In a smooth motion Strickler placed a hand on the door.

“Wait.” it was Claire who spoke up, brows furrowed. As if making a serious face would help put confidence into her voice. “You can do that spit thing in the mirror too, right? To see your familiar?”

Strickler found himself rather surprised by the question. So surprised he merely blinked back at her.

It was Toby’s disgusted, “Ugh what?” as he looked between the two of them that brought Walter Strickler back to his senses. Needless to say, he almost felt touched by the question.

“Yes..” Walter replied.

“NotEnrique said all changelings can.” said Claire.

“KnotEnrique is correct.”

Claire’s fists tightened, looking up at her former history teacher readying herself to gauge his expressions when she next asked, “When was the last time you looked at your familiar?”

Walter Strickler found himself at a loss for words. There were other undertones in Claire’s question. He could hear it in her voice, see it in the way her brows scrunched, and how she frowned. Accusatory. When was the last time you looked into the face you replaced?

Perhaps it was an unfair question, it sure felt like one to Strickler. No changeling had any say in being made, in turning into a replacement, in becoming. It was a lose lose situation for all parties. _There was more to it than that_ , he wanted to say. Yet that wasn’t what Claire was asking, and it wasn’t something Claire would bother to listen about. Or so Strickler thought.

The last time Strickler looked at the _real_ Waltolomew? Claire could read the guilty expression on Strickler’s face as bright as day.

“A long time.” he said, suddenly feeling his age creaking in his bones. Strickler made no excuses. “Too long a time ago.”

Claire’s expression was difficult to read. Her brows slacked, but her face stayed stern, “But, you still check on him?”

“Yes…sometimes I even-“

“Walter?” came Barbara’s voice from beyond the basement door. Distantly. It sounded tinted with sleep filled worry. Perhaps unsure if she was still dreaming. Everyone in the basement froze.

“Walt?” came Barbara’s voice again. The worry a little more pronounced. A worry of waking up to another man who was there, then wasn’t. Walter gripped the doorknob tighter.

He couldn’t bare to hear such a tone inflected with his (his?) name. It did make him wonder though, just what her voice would sound like saying the name; Stricklander. _What’s in a name?_ , he comforted himself, dodging a quick bout of existential panic.

Walter cleared his throat, adjusted his lapels once again, and with a sardonic mini salute Walter Strickler made his exit from the basement. Leaving the two teens to their devices.

“Barbara, you’re up! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” they heard Strickler say. “Just exploring.”

“Walter, did you do all this?!” they heard Barbara say, she sounded awed and less worried.

Claire and Toby shared a look.

“Spit thing?” Toby said at last.

“I’ll…I’ll explain later.” said Claire, glancing at the basement door one last time before she summoned a portal.

“Indeed…” Strickler’s voice became muffled the more he moved away from the door, though ‘little folk’ and ‘helpers’ came up.

“Pff.” was Toby’s response to hearing that, and the teens stepped through Claire’s portal.

Despite the turn in the conversation Walter Strickler was comforted by the fact that the Trollhunter band was asking questions. Changeling questions. His ‘sympathy to changelings through knowledge’ plan just might work. If they learned more, was informed about more, (and the killstone kept out from their grasp - and out from the Darklands), perhaps all parties would understand, and loose interest in this endeavor. Leave the familiars in their cribs. Its an idealistic leap, certainly not one Strickler was solely banking on, but wouldn’t it be marvelous?

Strickler wondered if KnotEnrique told Claire about his name preference yet. How close was the diapered changeling to Miss Nuñez? Close enough to show her, his familiar - her brother.

Barbara had a sleepy smile about her, her cheeks lined with crease marks from the pillow cushion Walter placed for her. Her hair looking more like a summertime nest for birds.

“You okay?” asked Barbara squinting, that sleepy smile starting to slack. Despite the world without her glasses looking a little more impressionistic she could still make out Walter’s overall body language.

Barbara cleared her throat and sat herself up a bit more. She leaned forward still squinting, with a tender “Walt?” that brought Walter back from his thoughts.

He broke into a smile, that even she could see “Sorry, distracted- did you sleep well?”

She hummed a _yes_ , “Distracted about what?”

Closing the distance between them Walter passed her her glasses, (he had set them aside after removing them earlier). A good natured sleep comment at the ready, with a throaty chuckle. Barbara smelled it a mile away. And could see it coming crystal clear now that she had her glasses on.

“Shh, don’t you dare- not a word.” said Barbara, voice still crackling with sleep, unable to stop smiling.

Walter looked at the ceiling innocently and sat down beside her, lacing his fingers over his stomach. Also unable to stop smiling. Walter’s ears reddened when she let her head drift to his shoulder. From their shared bond, Walter could tell her arms were a bit sore as well. It didn’t stop Barbara from lacing her hand in his.

“I only stayed down stairs, I’m afraid.” he said gently thumbing the side of her hand. “So upstairs might be a mess.”

Barbara hummed something that sounded like, ‘very gentlemanly’. An unspoken _thank you_ came in the form of her rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

A soft silence set in, and Walter breathed an easy sigh. Barbara, felt very much at the risk of falling asleep again, and Walter felt exceptionally comfortable. So comfortable it was frightening. The Earth could retake him, vines and moss could grow all about him, and he’d be - a word he never imagined himself thinking in this century - content, peaceful even. It always felt effortless to breath around her. Guilt creeped behind his heart like entangling ivies.

In the silence Barbara’s stomach grumbled something that sounded like it wanted more than just popcorn. At this Barbara groaned, and with great effort lifted herself upright, and started to stretch. It was a very deep stretch, and with it noises followed.

Walter’s shoulders shook with repressed giggles, very amused by her almost troll like behavior (especially with those vocals).

“Doing alright?” he asked.

Barbara nodded, and failed at removing some hair from her face. “Yeah, yeah…could you scratch my back?”

Walter started gently scratching, and Barbara started dancing her back to help him find the right spot. Which, was rather helpful. As it wasn’t every day someone can feel the back-scratch of another.

“I should eat something.” Barbara admitted, when her stomach squealed like a distant pig testing if there was an echo.

“I should probably go.” Walter admitted with a nod to the ceiling. She had a long day, more than likely pushed herself to have lunch with him, on top of moving furniture around, and fell right to sleep nearly the instant she collapsed on the couch. Yes, this was the best course of action. “I don’t want to keep you..”

“You’re not hungry?”

She was staring at him, he stared back.

“I, [ahem] I could eat.”

Something had happened. Within the span of a blink that electrified the very air. Walter tried desperately to figure out what. It was as if he was suddenly out of his depths. A mere flutter of her eyes, and he was lost at sea. Wires internally crossed, inputs and outputs all jumbled. Like a kite flying in a storm. Every instinct screamed caution.

Instead.

They decided on grilled cheese, and short sentences.

“The cheese melted well.” Barbara would notice.

“What cheese was this again?” Walter asked, knowing full well it was bound to be something pepper-jack related.

“A sort of pepper-jack mix, I’d have to double check.”

“Oh I see, very nice.” he nodded between bites.

Silent eating. The air felt stifling.

“It’s not too spicy is it?”

“No! Not at all. I’m quite the…spice fan.” he nodded.

Gracious it was embarrassing. Foolish even.

After helping clear what little mess they made. Passing plates, and brushing crumbs. Walter and Barbara robotically relocated closer to the door.

“Thank you,” Barbara said. She scratched her hairline with her thumb, shy like, “for coming over like that..to help. It, really means a lot to me.” She smiled up at him, and realized he had been smile/staring.

Walter cleared his throat, “As always, an infinite pleasure.” he kissed her hand, “I assure you.”

She gripped his hand tight and stepped in close in a such a smooth motion he barely realized he was about to be kissed until her lips were on him. Thumbing her hand he returned it with a flutter.

Sweet and tender. The kiss parted with a realization. A realization that formed as their noses grazed the side of the other’s nose, and a glance at the other’s lips, a gulp, the return of their set gaze.

The realization; that it just wasn’t quite the right length.

“You really didn’t have to.” she reiterated in a whisper.

Walter nodded an _I know_ , and whispered, “I wanted to.”

“I’m glad.”

So they kissed again. Cheeks reddening- deeper, deeper. A hand finding its way to her cheek. Her other hand finding its way to his hair. When they parted, (throat- hot, lips- wet), it just…still didn’t seem enough.

Panting, eyes not straying far each other’s gaze with quick glances at puckered lips, ruffled hair, tank top strap tipping on the edge of falling. A growing magnetism to collide. They had kissed each other multiple times before - yes, but there was something different here. Something that wasn’t just the length of their kisses.

An intimidating realization came to fruition; that they were, essentially, alone in the house.

With the sun starting to set, casting rays and reflecting colors into the rainclouds that never rained. Came that slow night time veil that brought to life nightly things, things that encroached closer.

It never felt more obvious how secluded they were, together like so. Together, and alone.

There was no school, no secretary just outside the door. No onlooking eyes. Passing cars. No mitigating texts to stop them from continuing. No waiters.

Only themselves.

With terrifying brilliance a full conversation zipped back and forth between their gaze. A look and silence that spoke volumes.

Dare we?

Hands continued their wandering. This time, to undisclosed destinations that teased at pant lines, thumbed at braw straps.

Dare we?

Barbara bit her lower lip. Walter gulped and rubbed his thumb against her back. Barbara played ever so gently with the small hairs of his neck. The smallest of tugs.

Dare we?

A hunger was there. An internal pang that acted like a gravitational pull. Who was pulling who close was unsure. Barbara glanced at his lips then back up to his eyes. Walter felt her breath on his face.

Dare we?

They could always stop the ride, but in many ways neither of them wanted to, and this rollercoaster continued slowly growing towards its peak - its zenith. Every molecule screamed, cautioned, warned, maybe even prophesied; that should they continue, well…it’d be difficult to stop. Maybe even painful. Though what can stop two forces of nature such as these?

Dare we?

Well?

Their lips collided in rapture. Contact. Electricity. The ecstatic first drop of a rollercoaster that sent the stomach flying.

Bodies swayed to lean against something, anything. The door, the wall. Clumsy, and hungry, with occasional clashing teeth- a breathed and muffled moan. The gently pulling and guiding of the face, using heavy lidded peripherals to guide them to a surface. Not the floor. Not the counter. Watch out for the table.

They braved the stairs. Walter held her tight so she wouldn’t trip, which got in the way of Barbara’s attempts to remove his jacket. Her hands snaking between tugging the jacket and pulling his chest closer.

Their shoes left a trail of breadcrumbs that lead to her bedroom.

Mercifully the bed wasn’t flipped.

Barbara, still fumbling with his jacket, hummed a sound of frustration that caused Walter to smirk into her mouth. Giving her neck some attention, she struggled to get his jacket off for other reasons.

His jacket hitting the floor coincided with a gasp from Barbara, who took Walter’s face in her hands.

“Rude.” she shakily breathed, her fingers then slid past his cheeks into his hair line. Her arms looping around his neck as they melted together again.

Whatever quip Walter had was lost to a gasp of his own, as Barbara worked her hips against him.

Artlessly they’d inch closer to the bed, shedding article after article of clothing until they were bare and raw. Exposed.

Naked before the other for the first time. Their fever clung to their hot chests while they took the time to look at one another. As if to say hello again.

A re-introduction of sorts. A meet and greet of the body.

Hello, myself and my body are happy to meet yourself and your body. Hands curiously wandering over bare shoulders, grazing past ribcages, and trailing over a spine that had no clothing constricting it. Flesh, and the air between, around, and within.

Lets explore.

What followed was the unmistakable want of making a good sexual first impression, which sometimes led to bringing past partners and past experiences into the equation as a helpful guide. A sort of skeletal structure while learning the do’s and don’ts of a new experience. Whether intentional or not, the past is always there- but the past is just the past, and there in the past it stays as something raw, real, and present was brought to the forefront between them.

In slightly nautical terms; one uses a boat to cross a large body of water, this is comically obvious- but the heart lies in learning that the Atlantic is not the Pacific, and an estuary is not a lake.

And so the want to make a good impression melted with comfort, reassurance, a willingness to learn, and trust. With it came new discoveries, made tantalizing new paths, new coordinates- learning to trust more and more the guiding stars in the other’s eyes more so than an outdated road map.

The slow ins and outs, the angles and rhythms, the “more like that…just, like, tha -ah!” the “yes!” the “no, more like-mmm y e s ”the flip flop of primal to tender and vise versa as their moans and groans would hitch up into a mighty chorus.

Rocking in such a way that the past melted into another dimension.

Pain expelled. Each having their own brand of loneliness- momentarily exorcised with soft caring hands. Affection pouring like the first torrential rain of a drought.

Dizzying.

Borderline overwhelming.

A choir all their own.

With it, came a release of such kind simplicity (nothing forced, nothing exaggerated), simply two beings crashing together- and with it; an intoxicating salty stillness.

In a world of such chaos, oh the glory of stillness!

To breathe in unison, holding onto each other as the planet spun at such a speed it wasn’t recognizable to those who dwelt in/on it.

A soundless breathy, _I’m here_.

A fluttered wet, _thank you_.

_What a wild world for this to happen, to meet someone like you._

The soft afterglow of a shared experience.

Hearts swelling, and smiling, smiling, smiling.

They stayed like that, in that dewy tender embrace for so long, they ended up sleeping together, dreaming of cherry orchards.

Hours passed pleasantly entangled together.

The sun was officially gone from the sky when Barbara slowly woke up. She squinted in the dark, her finger gently caressing what felt like Walter’s chin. Barbara arched her head to plant a kiss on his brow when- the closer she got to his face, the more she realized Walter was staring at her with eyes as wide as saucers that would put an owl to shame.

It wasn’t as bad as her half awake brain made it out to be, but something ancient that kept the human species from going extinct cried out ‘danger!’ in every molecule, warning her she was being watched by a nocturnal creature.

Thus, Barbara let out an instinctual fearful gasp, quite unable to stop herself, which sent Walter jolting upright with a nasal snarl. This startled her a second time.

“What? What is it??” he croaked, hair in a wind swept mess (pompadour, more like pompawhoa) while scanning through the darkness. Heart leaping into his throat he anticipated the worst. Arms out in an attempted protective gesture, sleep causing them to float down every now and then. He looked ready to challenge the sandman to a round of patty-cake more so than fisticuffs.

It was the sleep that still clung to his voice that tipped her off. Barbara covered her face ashamed. “Oh no…”

Misunderstanding, Walter shook his head soberingly, and grew very still, like the way canines get when trying to focus on a specific sound. He didn’t feel any sort of physical pain through the bond, and nothing seemed amiss about the room, apart from the mess of course.

If Barbara wasn’t feeling so embarrassed she would have mentioned that Walter could make a very convincing living statue street performer.

“I’m sorry Walt…” she said quietly, lifting herself up to take one of his outstretched arms. “Its nothing, I, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Walter the statue came back to life, turning and blinking at her in confusion. Confusion that quickly turned to concern.

“I don’t-?” Walter cleared his throat, “You alright?” He leaned to the side slowly, and gently rubbed her shoulder in a consoling gesture.

“It’s my fault. I was startled by,” she ran a her hand through her hair, feeling foolish, “your eyes.”

“My…eyes..?” he repeated back to her with caution. Jumping through a sleep filled mental gymnastics routine. For a fearful moment he wondered if he had to start explaining his existence to her. Walter wasn’t sure he was ready for that. By practice, he tried to avoid discussions of the self so soon after waking, at least if he could help it.

“I didn’t know you slept with your eyes open.”

“Ah.” he said, letting his arms drop. Relief seeping into his bones. Only for his intestines to seize when he realized how ready he was to spill his metaphorical guts out. “Didn’t think I still did.” he admitted with a few added blinks, “Old school yard trick, really.”

“You never noticed waking up with dry eyes because of it?”

“Well, dry is a common sensation in a desert climate, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Must be hell on your contacts.”

“My…? Oh, yes.” he nodded solemnly, “Dreadful.”

“Here,” went Barbara, slipping away to turn on a bedside table lamp suddenly, “I’m sure I have some eyedrops somewhere…” Walter sucked air in through his teeth at the stark contrast between the room being dark, and suddenly lit. Barbara mistook the discomfort for something else, “you didn’t take your contacts out, did you?”

Walter rubbed his eyes and internally cursed and admired Barbara’s attentive-ness.

“Actually I didn’t place them in today.” he improvised, “Didn’t feel like going through with the routine, and kept to the glasses…they’re more for driving and paper work anyways.”

Barbara gazed at him, and suddenly he felt very small and very observed. It felt very tiring and painful lie to her, more so post coitus. He tried very hard not to squirm as much as his insides wanted to. Walter cursed himself for feeling so foolish, surely lying to Bular and Gunmar’s face was more nerving…surely.

Luckily for the changeling Barbara didn’t specialize in optometry, nor lingered on his strange story for too long. After all what reason would the man have to lie to her? In many ways she was rather trusting, with the belief of giving the benefit of the doubt, (until given reason to doubt).

“If you say so.” she shrugged while collecting up some clothes to slap on. Doing a little shimmy into her sweatpants without any underwear. Walter blinked firmly at the upturned dresser.

“I really don’t need the eyedrops.” he pressed, shifting awkwardly and unsure if he should start collecting his things.

“Huh.” went Barbara looking into her phone, not fully hearing him. She made a small face and sighed before perking up again, “No worries. Besides, gotta remove some evidence.”

Walter furrowed his brows as her mischievous grin disappeared behind the door, replaced by two pairs of shoes hurtling in his direction. He managed to catch three of them, the fourth flopped against the side of the bed and fell on the ground next to his pants.

“Good one.” she winked before disappearing again to find some eyedrops.

Walter stared at the door, still holding onto the three shoes, jaw dropped. Remarkable.

Nothing of the last few hours felt real, and yet evidence stared back at him all around the room, and in his hands. He set the two pairs to the side and, and after shimmying into his own underwear, went about trying to set some sort of order to the room…and his mind. 

Not that he had anything to go off of when it came to how Barbara had her room originally set up, but he was a clever old thing and made a few guesses based on scratches on the floor and imprints on carpets, and more scratches along the wall. Guessing was all he could do, even in relationships.

Not that the changeling was blindly wandering as of what to do, he was an avid observer in both human and troll kind, knowledge was everything. He had, had missions and it’d be foolish not to take advantage of a common thread between both worlds (the indulgence of caring and bodily pleasure) and was quite the brilliant faker.

While lifting up to place a mirror back on its hook he wondered, ever so briefly, at his own reflection; was he faking right now? Was what he was feeling real, or calculated? This wasn’t his first exploiting rodeo. There had been others, few and very far between.

The guilt seized his heart as he realized while picking up a chair, that the unmistakable difference was that; before it would have been a breeze to lie about contact lenses. Now, he even considered to buy false frames just to keep the lie, and found it…tedious.

Looking over his shoulder Walter Strickler found his reflection snorting back at him, they judged one another for a good moment. Forrest like eyes dark with long, long years, and vegetation that grew through cruelty and blood. An evergreen in a chilly winter, maintaining its green flourish while oaks and maples yellowed and became skeletally bare.

Whatever the darker thoughts that started to slither into his mind were, melted at Barbara’s reappearance in the room. “Sorry it took so long” she sing-songed.

Her smile took the breath out of his lungs, and with it a held breath he didn’t know he was holding. He smiled back, feeling he could breath easier.

In a terrifying way it answered Walter Strickler’s previous questions on whether he was faking or not. He also felt his answer when she passed him the eyedrops, their hands ever so briefly touching.

How odd, how such a small touch could electrify even after having fully embraced in the most carnal of ways just moments ago. How…human? Or was it something else?

“Thank you.” Walter said, in such a way that made Barbara wonder if he was jokingly being dramatic about eyedrops. She couldn’t fathom what else those two words emotionally carried.

“All part of the job.” she attenuated.

Walter Strickler shouldn’t have to look through the world with eyes that saw the world under Bular and Gunmar’s reign anymore, a fact he needed reminding of. What was once thought impossible was now probable. But phantom chains still left phantom pains. 

Walter smiled back, and realized he should probably start applying the eyedrops. He took his time unscrewing the cap, and hoped he looked confident enough to appear like someone who actually applies eyedrops frequently.

He wasn’t doing so well. Though Barbara’s hands slowly snaking around his waist didn’t help.

“Need help there?”

“No, no…just…need to get past the not blinking part.”

“Ah-huh.” gently she took the eyedrops out of his hands, and motioned him to bend down slightly, “Geeze you’re tall.”

“This isn’t really necessary.” Walter said feeling a little foolish, “I would have managed.”

She hummed back, and said wryly, “And how many centuries would that take?”

Walter had to bite back a quip, (it went something along the lines of how a century could feel like a blink of an eye), but he knew better than to try and get in the way of Doctor Lake. Regardless, it didn’t entirely stifle his discomfort to have something so close to his eyes. There was something pathological about being in control of what is dropped into his own eyes, and letting someone else do it. 

“Stand still, or do you want to be a cyclops?”

“As long as you don’t blind me afterwards.”

“See, that’s a joke that _feels_ like I should know the reference of but…over my head.” she said slowly becoming distracted, “I don’t get it.”

A glance her way caused the drop to land on his eyebrow instead of on its mark.

“Walt!”

“Sorry! Sorry…” In the briefest moment, he noticed she looked serious, and not a focused work kind of serious. In his thoughts she managed to get two drops in one eyes.

“Now blink.”

He quietly did so. His mental thoughts were answered as Barbara said, “Jim won’t be coming home tonight.”

So, _there_ was the source of the sudden need to Doctor.

Walter lifted his head again to look at her, this time Barbara didn’t adjust the eyedrops, (the liquid of which would fall in his hair, not that either of them noticed).

“Is everything alright?” he felt dumb to ask, but asked all the same.

It wasn’t Barbara’s definition of alright, but she nodded regardless, “Just another impromptu sleepover.” Feeling the need to reassure herself, she added, “Better than not hearing anything.”

“Could it be because he saw my car parked outside? I can go- I should go..” he corrected, “and you know where to find him-“

“No, no” Barbara quickly interjected, despite feeling he had a point. Jim wasn’t exactly shy about his feelings when it came to her seeing Walter. “…there’s no need, I mean if you want to go it’s one thing, but…it’s like you said he’s just being a teen…” for a moment Barbara doubted if she was being a good mother and bit her lip. Was allowing this to continue enabling her son’s actions? Should she march over to Mrs. Domzalzki’s house and get Jim? Was it because Jim saw Walter’s car? Could it be her seeing Walter was causing all of this to begin with? She countered that with remembering the Museum incident (which was more of a catalyst to her seeing more of Walter than anything). She bit her lip again, and sighed before straightening her back.

“Look the damage is done.” she said with lingering exasperation as she ran her hand through her hair. “I’m not going to force him to come home, if he feels uncomfortable he feels uncomfortable - and it’s no one’s fault.” she added in, sensing the apologetic energy that was vibrating around him, while also wanting to remind herself as well. “Just something we’ll work through, and talk through. I’ve been meaning to get in touch with Mr. Blinky again anyways.”

Walter wasn’t sure if he’d love, or hate to be a fly on the wall during that discussion.

“I know where he is, and he’s safe.” she repeated, more for herself than anything, giving a nod of finality. Walter was beginning to understand more and more that Barbara was the sort who needed someone to speak out loud to while sorting out a problem, more so than someone who solves it for her.

“You know where he is, and he’s safe.” he parroted back to her with a nod. “You got this.” he assured her, “and I’m sure discussion with Mr. Blinky,” it took every ounce of espionage training not to show signs of physically marveling at what he was about to say. On one hand, a petty side of him would relish in watching the troll struggle with discussing human feelings, and emotions, on the other…well, praise must be given where it is due, Blinky has done a fine job mentoring the Trollhunter. As a teacher, Strickler could respect that. “will prove helpful, one way or another.” Walter scratched the side of his chin with his index finger, “And I don’t mind parking a few blocks away every now and then in the future. Until things aren’t so, erm, prickly.”

She gave his shoulder a thankful squeeze, which only tugged at the guilt that slept in his belly.

They smiled at each other and Walter tilted his head in a hidden remorseful sort of way that caused the collecting eye drop liquid they both forgot about to start dripping past his hairline and over his eyebrow. Barbara clapped a hand over her mouth and straightened the eye dropper with a nerve breaking giggle. Walter started blinking rather fast with his left eye as the liquid kept descending.

“Oh no! I- oh man…I forgot..I’m sorry!”

“I see.” he said, unable to stop himself, and instantly forgiving her.

Barbara snorted despite herself, and looked at the ceiling while pushing Walter’s goofy smiling head away, smirking.

“Come here, I’ll get the other eye.” she said after her giggles died a little. She lifted the eye dropper to the light, readjusting her glasses to check if there was any of the liquid left.

“Bugger it.” Went Walter sweepingly, twirling Barbara toward him with one smooth move. The eye dropper fell to the floor, and quickly out of their thoughts, with only the promise of buying her a new one as its epitaph.

They swayed cheek to not damp cheek for a bit to a tune neither of them heard, but certainly felt. It came with images of cherries. The longer they swayed the more Barbara relaxed against him.

“It never did rain.” she said idly.

“C’est la California.” he purred into her ear in the same idle tone, not even trying to pronounce anything correctly.

Barbara pulled away, remembering something, “You never did tell me what all that French was!”

“Probably something to do with baguettes.” 

Barbara looked him over, eyes lingering below his waist and back at his eyes with a gaze that read, _ah-huh sure_ , not buying his smart-ass response. Walter’s ears slowly turned as red as Barbara’s hair.

“Lying _baguettes_ you nothing, Walt.”

They erupted into fits of snort filled giggles.

He relented to her blue ocean gaze, “Well alright, it’s ah. Well. Bit of a twit move on my part…I’ve been told I quote things a bit more than usual when, under the influence.”

“That’s not so bad, It kinda says a lot about your memory though.”

“I invite you to revise that statement after witnessing a night of quoting John Locke at 4 in the morning to anything that moves.” he joked, guiding Barbara into a spin.

And by ‘anything that moves’, Walter Strickler referred to a moment long ago. While being alone talking to his familiar through a well polished silver plate, who couldn’t hear him regardless, during a low moment of writhing drunken guilt.

_“It’s the old tabula rasa, you see, you’ll never have to blemish it. Forever a clean slate! A white paper void of all characters, without any ideas. Oh you have no idea- ignorant…blissful. It is for the best you see - you see don’t you? Don’t you??” a pause, followed with a drunken bubble of anger irrationally brought on by a lack of response. He said, with the gravity of the drunk, “you would have died that night in the woods, you know.”_

“No, there aren’t videos.” he added coyly, returning to the present. She gave a little snort.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s pretentious either way- the inebriation just makes it a little more forgivable.” she said as she twirled the hairs on the back of his head.

Walter faked a dramatic wound to the chest, and rested his head on her shoulder.

“There, there,” she patted, “you’ll get over it.” she said with remorseless amusement.

He gave her shoulder a little nibble at that. Barbara’s grin widened with her shriek.

“It was a little something by Jacques Prévert.” he said into her shoulder between kisses.

“Pervert? _That’s_ a last name.” she smirked relishing in her turn to be a wise ass.

“Pré-vert.” he corrected with a thicker accent.

“Hon-hon-hon!” Barbara tittered with a stereotypical French laugh.

Walter lifted his head in false bewilderment, both of them unable to stop smiling. “How did you know that’s how the poem started?”

“Call it a hon-hon-hunch.” she laughed into his lips, which tickled with a replying hum on Walter’s part.

Their giggling subdued into more tender affections. Walter started the smallest of sways.

The room was still messy, tinted yellow from the flow through the lampshades. Like twin false suns. The glow bounced off the curtains, and around the room unevenly. The lack of geometry is eye catching, and forgettable all at once.

A breeze from the air conditioning vents started to breathe the curtains to life. Leaves and petals from the tipped over vase became momentarily air born. Fluttering never higher than their ankles.

“Three matches one by one struck in the night.” Walter started, feeling Barbara smile against him.

“The first,” he pulled away, tenderly pinching her chin upwards. “to see your face in its entirety.”

“The second,” Walter bent to kiss her eyelid, “to see your eyes.” Barbara bit her lower lip, cupping Walter’s cheek.

“The last,” Walter breathed, mouth inches away from each other, throat heating, ears burning, “to see your mouth.”

Barbara’s breath hitched slightly.

“And the darkness all around,” he guided her into another spin before drawing her close again. Barbara squeezed his hand, “to remind me of all these. As I hold you in my arms.”

A silence lingered, like the hanging last chords of a song still resonating in the air. Invisible yet present. Barbara hummed with glee.

“That,” went Barbara, kissing the corner of his mouth, “was wonderful, Walt.”

“Thank you.” he mused, and theatrically rolled his hand at the wrist in a mock bow.

Barbara caught his hand and wrapped herself in Walter’s arms, guiding them closer to her bed. Compliant and grinning, he followed.

Barbara reached her hand around to cradle the back of his head, “Now say that again in French, less drunk.” she cooed.

“That might be tricky, for you see - I believe I already am.”

“Oh?” her smile stretched, her eyes heavy lidded with emotion. Knowing full well what she was walking into, she exhaled, “drunk on what?”

Walter’s smile spread all the more as he leaned forward and kissed her deeply.

They descended and oozed back into the bed. Like honey dripping off a spoon.

 

Dream Sweet in Sea Major

 

Morning was heaven, or what a changeling could imagine heaven to be like. The world seemed brighter, softer, kinder even. The cynic in him was a little too unsure how to handle these sentiments. They felt rather overwhelming. However, Barbara’s snoring was enough to keep him from lingering on said thoughts.

He twirled her hair in his fingers, _as silken as Helios’s cape_ , he thought fondly. Her hand clenched and unclenched in her sleep, with the smallest bit of drool trickling from the side of her mouth. He leaned into her to dab it away with his thumb ever so gently. She looked like the epitome of a peaceful slumber.

Walter was trying to decide which painter would best capture Barbara’s beauty when he heard approaching footsteps and the doorknob starting to turn.

They were no longer alone, and it was lucky Walter moved when he did.

“Mom?”

Bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger. Walter’s mind whirled as he squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. Hoping the room was still enough of a mess, and draped with sheets and covers to, well, cover any evidence a bright and hormonal teenager would catch.

“You awake?” went Jim who entered the bedroom with his back to the door, carrying an apology breakfast tray of French toast, berries, orange juice, and an emptied glass milk jar with a flower in it.

The sound of the tray loosing and quickly regaining its balance followed, as Jim gazed around his mother’s room. It looked about as messy as the rest of the second floor was, though he was unsure why half of the room looked like a failed blanket fort attempt. Jim was about to investigate a very curious lump when he heard his mother say,

“Malt…Waiter?”

Walter, who was hiding under the bed like the monster he was, wondered how fast he could tie a sheet around himself if need be (it had been many centuries since he had to wear anything resembling a toga). Walter also wondered what utter nonsense he could _possibly_ fabricate to smooth his discovery over. _If_ he’s discovered, of course. Though with the way Barbara was mumbling who’s to say how soon that would be.

Jim rested the tray on her bedside table, and watched as his mom reached for the empty space in her bed, “Halt?”

“That’s some dream you have going on this time, mom.” Jim said sympathetically, as he leaned and kissed his mom’s forehead. Barbara mumbled something else that sounded like a question, groaned, and propped herself up while fluttering her eyes open. As her son came more into focus, Barbara caught her covers in time to reveal anything

“Oh! _Jim_!” went Barbara, louder than Jim expected. She tried to pull the covers more and more over her, only to feel resistance coming from somewhere else; under the bed. The cover, well, covered Walter’s ankle hight view as well as Jim’s (should the teen crouch down).

It took a quick glance behind her, the sight of herself being ‘alone’, and a scan around the room, to put two and two quickly together.

“Jim, I thought you were at Toby’s.” went Barbara, sleep still in her voice.

“Well I, had to get ready for school, pickup some stuff…”

Barbara squinted at the tray, “and made breakfast.” she said softly a hand slowly reaching to cover her mouth. “Oh Jim.”

“Yeah..” Jim looked down at his handy work, “I..I’m sorry mom, I know I haven’t been…my usual self. And, and I just-” his voice started to crack, “I do still love you mom.”

“Oh kiddo,” Barbara reached an arm around Jim and pulled him close for a raspberry fueled kiss on the cheek.

“Mooaaaaahhm!” Jim laughed, who faked struggled to get away, and quickly gave her a raspberry fueled kiss on the cheek as well. They hugged and giggled.

“Jim,” Barbara said at last, tentatively, “I know things are rocky, I know things are changing, and high school can feel like life or death.” Jim laughed at that, and Walter Strickler, from under the bed, felt like the smallest amoeba in the world. “Especially with the amount of pressure they put on teens these days. The amount of choices you’re expected to make..”

“Like an uphill anxiety train.” Jim tried to joke. Barbara squeezed her son close, and motherly kissed into his hair.

“You know you can always talk to me…I’m here for you, I’ll always be here for you-“

“I, I know mom. It’s, it’s not that I don’t want to talk to you about it…I just… _can’t_ …” Jim looked at his mom with glistening eyes. Cleared his throat and hugged her again, “Not yet. I…I will though…just-”

“I believe you Jim.” she hugged him back tightly, repeating softly, “I believe you.”

Jim’s voice cracked again as he spoke, “It’s like I’m trying to get from point A to point B with two different roombas strapped to my feet..” Barbara nodded giving a shaky exhale. Jim laughed at the ridiculousness of what he was trying to explain, and not explain. “I…don’t know what I’m doing half the time, but I have to- well, do it, and…there’s this _pressure_ , mom.”

“Does…does Mr. Blinky help you, with- getting to point B? I know you don’t want to talk about it with me yet, but…if talks with Mr. Blinky isn’t helping, I’ll help you find someone else..” 

Jim hugged her tighter, “I know mom…he does help, he…he helps a lot. He…he really gets the two roomba metaphor, I mean he didn’t at first, but he does.”

Barbara looked into her son’s face, trying to decipher any sort of insight, clue, anything, and kissed her son’s head again. Without jumping to wild theories she couldn’t fathom, and at a loss of what to say she sighed, “I’m glad.”

Jim smiled up at her, and sighed feeling lighter.

“So, apology breakfast hm? What’s on the menu?” asked Barbara ruffling Jim’s hair before turning to look for her glasses.

She squinted at the other bedside table, and realized it wasn’t there. Barbara squinted at the table beside her, it wasn’t there either.

“So we have, ‘I Should Have Called and Texted Sooner French Toast’.” started Jim turning the tray for a better display.

Barbara snorted, amused, “Good start.” and patted the bed to see if perhaps she misplaced it somehow within the folds of sheets and covers.

“Made with your favorite ‘Yikes Butter’, and ‘I’ll Try To Be Less Snippy Cinnamon’”

“Oh I do like that.” she admitted, smiling. She squinted at the far side edge of her bed as the familiar shape of her glasses frames floated upwards.

Barbara, as ambiguous as possible, leaned over to retrieve them. She added a little thankful squeeze to the hand that passed them to her, before it slipped away to return under the bed.

Adjusting her glasses she popped a blueberry in her mouth, “And ‘Forgiveness Berries’?”

“Yeah!” said Jim bright and hopeful.

“You’re not off the hook just yet, kiddo.” she finger wagged before pinching his cheek, “but you’re certainly on your way, and I’m thankful for it.”

Jim beamed back, lifting the orange juice glass, “So…Acceptance Juice?”

“Acceptance Juice.” she nodded, not sure if her son was referencing some sort of internet thing, taking the glass thankfully.

She was in the middle of her second gulp when Jim asked, “So why is Strickler’s car still parked outside our house?” Barbara’s coughing covered the sound of Walter slapping his hand to his face from below the bed.

“He’s, not still here, is he?” asked the teen with different layers of panic in his voice. Looking over the so called ‘blanket fort’ mess with a new meaning.

“No!” waved Barbara, perhaps a little too eager, “No- _no_!” she laughed and cleared her throat. All at once she felt transformed back into her college years. As much as she didn’t want to lie to her child, there was a little excitement in it that made her feel youthful. “He was over last night, but,” she looked at the orange juice glass, “we got a little too into the wine cupboard, and let me tell you-“

“Please don’t.” went Jim expecting the worst.

“-he _cannot_ hold his rosé.”

Walter nodded from below the bed, impressed and enamored all in one.

“So, we did the responsible thing and called a Lyft.” finished Barbara, giving a little cheers motion with her orange juice.

“Oh..ah, yeah, that makes sense.” went Jim with a wash of relief, before his face fell a little. Jim looked into his mom’s face, at how happy and glowing it looked.

Adolescent awkwardness aside the teen felt conflicted. On one hand he was happy to see his mother happy, on the other the cause of said happiness was a two faced, backstabbing, murderous-

“Jim,” started Barbara, reading something in her son’s construed facial features, “I- I know it’s hard, well- I can imagine how hard it is to see your parent dating someone who isn’t your-“

“What? No- mom, I have _zero_ hopes of you getting back with dad. _Believe me_. Just…” not for the first time did Jim wonder how easier things would be if he could just tell her everything. Flat out spill everything, but that would only add to the stress she already had. He couldn’t bring himself to do so. It pained Jim to lie and distort their relationship, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to inadvertently place his mom in a painful situation. “…be careful.”

Barbara smiled, and cupped her son’s cheek, “My little hero. I’ll be careful, don’t you worry.”

“I will anyways.”

“I know kiddo.”

“Though technically _he’s_ the one who should worry.” grinned Jim striking a stance and thumbing his nose with a little bounce.

“Better believe it.” went Barbara who raised her arms in a stance as well, though not high enough for the sheet cover to drop from her torso.

They bobbed back and forth for a bit and exchanged a high fives and cheek kisses

“Love you Jim.”

“Love you too mom.”

Jim left the room to leave his mom to a breakfast in bed.

A content sigh passed Barbara as she popped another blueberry in her mouth, and rolled to the side of the bed. Moderately placing herself upside down to look at Walter. He was naked with his hands folded politely over his stomach, and giving the bottom of her bed a hard to read stare.

“You okay down there?”

“Not the most orthodox of mornings, but I can’t complain.” went Walter while twiddling his thumbs. “Made some fine friends with the dust bunnies.”

“Is that so?”

“They were just about to tell me where all lost socks go.”

Barbara gave a snort with a shake of her head, and gave another contented sigh, “You really moved fast there.”

“Not as quick as your thinking, bravo to that.”

It could have been the blood rushing to Barbara’s upside down head, or the compliment, but either way Barbara smirked red with a humble, “Psshaw- that? It’s not my first rodeo. Nor yours I should think.”

Walter grinned back innocently. “Permission to come up?”

Barbara gave a mock salute gesture as a yes, and her head disappeared from Walter’s line of sight.

Topside once more, Walter’s route to retrieving his clothes ended up being blocked by a thankful hug by Barbara.

“There better not be an apology in the works.” Walter warned in good nature.

Barbara pressed a guilty kiss into his cheek. “This really wasn’t how I expected the morning to go.” awkwardly she looked down, wishing he had some clothes she could fiddle with or adjust.

“From what I heard it seemed cathartic.” he reasoned.

“It was,” she agreed, a smile blossoming, “it was. Needed even…but, It must have been awkward.” Barbara felt like she was holding her breath. Most men she interacted with wouldn’t go out of their way to hide under the bed for her, or take what happened so well. She felt as though she needed to touch base with him, she wished she could understand the strange glint in his green eyes.

Walter bobbed his head in a considering fashion, “Awkward is certainly the right word for it,” he admitted before lifting her chin, “but not the only word. If there’s some correlation between hiding under your bed and heartfelt moments between you and your son, then, I’ll offer to do so regularly.” Barbara’s eyes prickled some. Her two hands joining together to rest against her smile. “I’d just like to request to be a little more clothed next time around- maybe stow some crisps away down there.”

Barbara laughed at that, and rested her hands on his shoulders, “I’m sure the dust bunnies will love it.”

“Definitely! Especially Susan- that crafty bitch.“

“You already named some?”

“Several.”

Barbara clicked her tongue with a mirth filled smile, shaking her head, “that crafty bitch.” she agreed.

She planted a slow kiss into him. Tender and kind, and full of curiosities towards this strange, calm, good humored principal who she continuously felt too lucky to have met.

They risked heading towards more risqué affections - when the sound of Jim moving around downstairs sobered them both.

“I should go.” he stated softly.

Biting her lip and gently trailing her hand through his hand, she nodded a breathy, “Yeah..”

Disengaging Walter returned to collecting himself, and his things.

“I-I do feel a little bad.” Admitted Barbara, between watching him and placing some morning clothes on herself.

“You shouldn’t.” he reassured.

“But I do!”

“Fair enough.” he chortled while shimmying into his pants. After all, who was he to try and stop her from feeling what she wanted to feel?

“I mean not even breakfast - or coffee.”

Walter paused, looked her over, beamed, and became a dramatic embodiment of eating someone with their eyes. Until Barbara threw his turtleneck at him.

“You know what I mean.” she huffed, popping another blueberry into her mouth.

“How is this for a compromise,” said Walter from within the depths of his turtleneck, “I’ll take a few berries and a quarter of the French Toast to go.”

Barbara gave him her best Walter impression while passing him his jacket, “Fair enough.”

He grinned and kissed her, tasting the residual blueberry on her lips.

“Kisses,” she reminded him between lip locks, “Don’t count as meals.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, “And yet nothing could taste so sweet.”

“Good grief.” she sighed into his mouth.

Flustered and blushing Barbara pushed her French Toast into his hands. Hesitantly he took a few bites, forgoing the action of wrapping a bit up in a napkin for later consumption.

“So-“ Barbara cleared her throat, “what’s the plan?”

“Hm?” Walter hummed while licking the residual sugar from his fingers after returning the French Toast. It was rather good, a little too sweet for his taste, but good. The sweetness reminded him he’d have to make a dentist appointment at some point.

“To sneak you out.” She explained, crossing her legs. She leaned forward with excited mischief. It reminded her of a time Anna and herself tried to sneak some college dates out of their room. “I’ll distract Jim while you sneak out the back?”

“The backdoor, that’s in the kitchen, where Jim is?”

“The front door?”

“To a car I shouldn’t be returning to get until later? Not to mention there’s quite the view of the stairs from the kitchen nook.”

Barbara frowned, and pushed her hair to collect and cascade down one shoulder. “Then what-?”

Politely Walter thumbed towards the window in such a casual way he might as well have been pointing to various side road flowers.

Barbara looked over the studious principal- and then his arms, “You can’t be serious.” she said while trying not to sound rude.

“As the plague.” he defended, “Besides, this isn’t - as you earlier put it ‘my first rodeo’, either.”

“We’re not college kids anymore, Walt.” she said while he moved to remove the window screen. “That’s a second story drop!”

“As my grandmother once said, ‘my refusal to grow old will be a success, if I just stay young until I die’.”

“And how old did she live until?” she snarked. Walter pretended not to hear her. “I don’t know about death, but you’re certainly risking broken bones- that’s if you manage to walk away with the use of your legs.” Walter, smiling, gently placed the screen against the wall. Barbara started to finger wag, “And if you think you’re going to get some sort of ER discount for knowing me-“ the rest she muttered into his lips. It took a while of lip locked muttering before she calmed, feeling his mouth smile while kissing her. Yielding, Barbara’s tense arms slowly wrapped around him, and Walter pulled her closer.

The morning breeze passed over the two of them like a group hug.

Pulling away gently, he rubbed her arms, feeling the goosebumps blossoming over her skin. Her soft, very human skin. “Thank you for your concern.”

There was something in Walter’s eyes that made Barbara pause - if only for a moment. It wasn’t for the first time she spotted a sense of almost wistful loneliness. It reminded her of a shipwreck survivor finally finding land. In a way she knew that glint, but couldn’t quite call it by name. It was almost a shared something.

“Please don’t get hurt.” she wished aloud.

The banality of someone worrying so much over an ‘escape through a window’ baffled and enthralled the changeling. So much so, he wished he could share it- tell her why it felt so strange and new - but instead it remained a private joke for himself to enjoy alone.

“To all the gods I can name - I promise.” he said as he moved to sit between the window frame, one leg already out. He thumbed her knuckles before kissing her hand, “After all they didn’t call me ‘Wild Walter’ for nothing.”

Barbara blinked feeling there was a lot to unpack in his statement. However what followed happened rather fast; Jim’s footsteps, the sound of him saying “hey mom?” before opening the door, and Walter experiencing the very distinct feeling of being pushed out the window.

“JJiiiAM!?!” went Barbara in shock, bouncing where she stood, waving her hands in the disbelief of what she just did.

Barbara’s head bobbed back and forth, as if some part of her tried to coax herself to stay calm, _don’t out the lie it’s all fine_ \- another part of her screamed the horrid reality, _you just pushed someone out the window- the_ _window_.

“Mom what happened?! Are you okay?”

Her hands were shaking on the rim of the window. There was no body below, and no sound except the morning chirps and salutations of birds, someone starting up their lawnmower, and a very distant car alarm sounding.

“Mom??” Jim pressed, gently turning her to the side. He looked out the window as well, to see if it could be anything troll related.

her voice was a few octaves higher than normal.“I-um.” Barbara fidgeted with her tank-top, and pressed her fingertips to her cheek. She exhaled a nerve rich chuckle, “I was deep in thought, looking for my glasses- and I thought I saw something between the window screen.”

Jim worriedly furrowed his brows, “Mom, you’re wearing your glasses.”

From over the top of his head Barbara could see Walter safe on the ground waving up at her, curiously unharmed.

She let out an exasperated, “You are so right!” relieved, and hugged her son close to not only relieve tension, but keep him from looking out the window a second time. “Goodness I could use some coffee. Brain’s still not all ready for the day haha.”

“Already on it!” went Jim brightly, kissing his mom’s cheek.

“Hey Jim,” she called catching him at the doorway, “why don’t we have breakfast together? You have time right?”

“I-uh..” Jim scratched the back of his shin with his foot and glanced at his phone clock, “well..”

“C’mon, I’ll even write a fake doctor’s note if you end up late.” she added with a wink feeling impish.

“It’s not fake if you are a doctor, mom.”

She ruffled his hair, “You are _so_ right.”

“Won’t the school get suspicious?”

“Not with me knowing -“

“Nope! Meet you downstairs mom.” went Jim, eager to avoid where her statement would go.

Barbara threw her head back in a laugh, and called “Alright kiddo.” As Jim bounced his way down the stairs, Barbara slid back over to the window where an unharmed Walter looked up at her fox like and grinning with admiration.

“I-I don’t even know where to begin-“ she started, running a nervous hand through her hair, “I am so, _so_ sorry.”

“I immediately forgive you.”

Barbara continued, not entirely hearing him- though their distance didn’t help matters. “How?! You practically flew out the window! I-I pushed you!” she exclaimed still not believing it herself. She looked down at her hands as if to double check it were her own hands and not, somehow, someone else’s.

Walter laughed as if remembering an inside joke, “I promise you-“

“What can I do?”

“What?”

“What can I do to make up to you the fact that I,” Barbara began to gesture her words to add emphasis, “Pushed. You. Out. The. Freaking. Window.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t ‘Ah.’ me!” she said, still riding the adrenaline of her actions and nerves.

Walter tried very hard to look serious, not that he didn’t take her concerns seriously. They were exceptionally valid. From what the changeling noticed, It isn’t every day a human pushes another human out the window- at least not so much in this century (though he could be wrong). It was more her feelings continued to underlined the surreal feeling the situation brought on to him. 

He raised his hands, “Alright - alright, I apologize.” it didn’t seem like Barbara would relent on the matter anytime soon, “Give me a little time, and I’ll think of something.”

“And don’t ‘conveniently’ forget either!”

He placed his hands in his pockets, smiling, “I won’t. It’s a deal.”

“That…” she took a moment to let out a long exhale, “that was wild, Walt.” She adjusted her glasses and rested her hand on her heart, “how did you-?”

“Trade secret.” he grinned tapping the side of his nose.”

“Trade, _teaching_ secret?” she asked skeptically.

“That’s me, Walter Strickler; International Man of History.”

Barbara sucked air through her grinning teeth, looking physically in pain, “I don’t know what I hate more, the joke, or how much I enjoyed it.”

Walter laughed a deep bellied laugh that risked drawing attention to their window side conversation, reveling in the pain his joke caused.

When his laugh subsidized he smiled. While Barbara answered to a call over her shoulder he smiled. When he confirmed he’ll swing by later to get his car back he smiled. He smiled while watching her twirl away to have breakfast with her son. And for every moment he thought he had grown tired of outliving others, Walter Strickler smiled for the present, and for this bright new future.

Returning his hands to his pockets, heart swelling with emotion, he walked off, more determined than ever to have the outcome he wanted come to fruition.

Let them sing an untold tale of Shigir and Ohou - let there be new stories, new lesson to pass down. Let the sun and moon continue its dance, let the sunshine in to melt the boney frost. Let there be more options to the infernal trolley problem aside from the choice between a child’s death or the downfall of changelings. And, sacrilegiously, let there be no Eternal Night upon Her arrival.

O Maker, you were human once - right?

Are these not impossible times? New times? Who needs never ending darkness with the Gumm-Gumms trapped away in the Darklands?

Though it is best not to question deities.

A feverish wave of optimism seized Strickler while he checked on his forsaken assassin- still trapped amongst the cacti. Strickler guessed he had a good portion of a week before Angor would manage to get back into Arcadia.

There was no time to lose, and yet the world seemed tinted rosy with the scent of cherries in bloom.

Meanwhile, the marked rubble of stone from the Darklands continued to sit locked up with the other fetches, like a time bomb waiting to be discovered. The turntable’s handle, itched to be turned.

Yet this was no matter to the changeling’s mind. He hummed as he worked, and hummed where he walked be it the school grounds or the Janus Order.

 

             Moments and Days Without Angor Blurred Together Rosily with a Hint of Cherriesand Foreboding Lavender 

 

The teachers of Arcadia Oaks High School and the changelings of the Janus Order thought roughly the same thing, _he must be sick_. _Something must be off_. Señor Uhl found it particularly unsettling, more worried that, if it was an illness, hopefully it can be contained before it spreads.

Miss Janeth found it to be a wonderful opportunity to coax more supplies for ‘Stomping in the Rain’. Though no matter what what the principal agreed, he continued to be firm on the idea of reaching out to the local golf course first.

Coach Lawrence saw it, more or less, for what it really was, but mostly kept his thoughts to himself.

However, watching the principal hum about did give the coach an extra push of his own to call a certain Mrs. Palchuk, to double check if their later plans were still on the table.

Back at the Janus Order, while walking through the medically white halls, Strickler was being followed by a changeling giving him an update to how the cleaning process was being handled. As well as a number of other bureaucratic things that had already been emailed to Strickler.

“So you see, with form CQ92 already in the works, the stamp for form B90 will process in due-“

“What is your favorite color, Johnson?” Strickler asked while giving the walls a good hard look.

“S-sir?” stammered Johnson, re-sweeping his already overly side swept hair. 

Strickler stopped, side stepped, and looked down at Johnson, in an unintentionally almost comically imposing way, due to their height difference alone. Johnson gave a good impression of a computer needing to restart. He felt uneasy by the sudden personal question, and lack of formality.

“Color, Johnson - do you have a favorite one?” Strickler asked again, not understanding the complexity to his question. He placed his hands behind his back, “And please don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I- um.” Johnson pulled at his shirt collar in an attempt for more air circulation, “Magenta is - ah, nice.”

Strickler stared at Johnson for a while, then back at the walls, and considered the color.

“No, that wouldn’t do.” went Strickler, tutting to himself before walking down the halls again with a confused, (and slightly miffed) Johnson behind him.

~

“The Depot.” repeated Barbara for the fifth time even as they parked in the parking lot.

“Yes.”

“ _That’s_ the way I’m repenting for-“

“Pushing me out the window, yes.” he affirmed. 

She followed him outside the car with an exasperated huff.

“Repenting by-“

Walter gave a deep nod, finishing her sentence for her, “Putting items in the trolley, or cart, or - I’m just too old and feeble you know.” he draped dramatically against the car beside his own, leaning back with an arm over his head, “And my _back_. You were right about the high school thing.”

Barbara pierced her lips tightly trying not to be swayed by is intended dramatics, and had quite a few quips to hurl back. At least until the car alarm went off making the two of them jump. The pair scurried away hand in hand giggling like mischievous teenagers. Looking anything, but innocent.

“The trolley!” Barbara snickered, impersonating his accent. She skidded slightly before the automatic door.

“The cart!” Went Walter, giving her hand a squeeze before he snatched up the shopping cart, (or trolley).

They ignored the onlookers, and didn’t stop until they were half way down the lighting aisle, and filled it with laughter. Some might say the aisle glowed all the more for it.

From there they roamed the depot talking. At one point Barbara hitched a ride on the cart while Walter pushed. When they found the paint aisle they joked about how ridiculous some names were. How some were borderline nail polish like, and others similar to very specific odd candle smells.

After spending ten minutes ranking various paints between nail polish and candles, Barbara asked, “Window pushing aside,” Walter snickered and she shot warning look, practically smelling one of his bad jokes on the horizon. “why the sudden need to renovate?”

“Ah, well..” Walter rubbed his earlobe, and considered a Coral Coast Peach paint, “definitely nail polish -esq.”

“Walter - ”

“It, felt like a right time for a change.” he admitted. Walter turned to face her, “I’ve been staring at the same walls for too many years - they could do with some sprucing.”

She nodded and placed a strand of hair behind her ear. Although oblivious to the deeper meaning behind his words, she could still detect that sense of something in his eyes. A something yet to be revealed.

“Well, what’s it gonna be then?” she picked up a moss green color sample, “What’s pulling you?”

Placing his hands in his pockets, Walter looked at her, and smiled.

A half hour of puns and jokes later the cart was filled with a binder of paint samples and not much else.

“I’m serious, I think you’re letting me off the hook way too easy, Walter.”

“You apologized, placed a binder in the cart - thank you,” he added as Barbara passed said binder to him from the cart. “the contract, as they say, is complete.”

“I pushed you-“ she reiterated while she gave the cart a final push to join others.

“And what a fine job!” Walter raised his hand to his eye line, focusing on how the cart rolled easily into place as if it were a distant ship. “I dare say you could go professional.”

Barbara moved to insist on carrying the binder, which Walter raised above the both of them, and out of her reach, “Have you ever played shuffled board?”

“Walt, I swear to, ugh.” Barbara stubbornly went on the balls of her feet and reached for the binder in protest. “There has to be something more I can do!”

At this, Walter slipped his arm around her waist and gently guided her in to a soft kiss. Her hand relaxing in its reach towards the raised binder, her arm gently floating downward to rest on his shoulder.

“Cheater.” she breathed at last.

“I prefer the term ‘cad’, thank you very much.”

“Ah-uh.” she nodded dryly, and pulled his jacket lapels initiating another kiss. Walter started to lower the arm that held the binder. Then started raising it again, smiling into Barbara’s giggly kiss. As she was being anything but incognito in her efforts to reach for the binder again.

“Truce.” Walter breathed as he pulled away, “How’s this for repayment; dinner at my place, with a bit of suffering at the hands of my cooking.”

Barbara shook her head with a snort, and adjusted her glasses, “It better be horrible.”

“Just short of food poisoning, I assure you.”

“Well that picnic pasta wasn’t so bad.”

“Store bought.”

“What?!” Barbara pulled away a little more and eyed him, and his cat like smirk, “I don’t believe you.”

“Very wise.” he pulled her closer to himself, another dewy kiss inbound, “You’ll just have to find out the hard way.”

Barbara hummed, and moved her hand like a little walking person on his shoulder before cupping the back of his head, “I suppose so…it’s a deal.”

They began to incline their heads for a third time when someone cleared their throat rather poignantly at them. Barbara and Walter blinked, and looked in the direction of the sound.

They were quickly reminded of where they stood. The sound of the automatic doors opening and closing, the parking cars with high pitched ‘bleep bloops’ when they’re locked (or unlocked), and the rattle of pushed carts with low humdrum of conversation, sounded louder than ever now.

What followed was a chorus of giggling middle schoolers in girl scout outfits; blushing, and whispering.

A very pragmatic looking scout, with pigtails and a great deal of freckles, cleared her throat again.

Barbara and Walter, feeling very reprimanded, untangled.

Barbara covered her face a little, unable to meet the scout’s expectant gaze.

Walter awkwardly stepped forward, scratching his nose, and asked, “Ah, erm, any toffee- classics?”

Barbara’s shoulders shook with repressed laughter.

“Fresh out.” said the scout with exceptional sternness.

Walter looked over his shoulder for help.

“Thin mints?” Barbara barely managed to ask, her voice a few octaves higher than usual.

~

It was between classes, when Toby, Claire, and Jim rounded a corner and stumbled on the sight of Coach Lawrence and Principal Strickler chatting. It wasn’t too odd a sight, the teacher’s lounge was primarily for that. What was odder, and this could be read even in Coach Lawrence’s face, was seeing Principal Strickler in there for longer than three minutes. After all he didn’t get a reputation of ‘living in his office’ from hanging about the teacher’s lounge for very long.

Jim screwed his eyes suspiciously at the scene.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Toby asked what everyone thought.

“I doubt it’s Trollhunter related.” commented Claire, her smile strained. Jim continued to stare. “We should get going, the bell is going to ring.”

“I don’t like it…” Jim said taking a step forward some, “he’s too, _happy_.”

“Coach Lawrence? He looks like he’s ready to pass a kidney stone, personally.” said Toby.

“ _Guys_. Math class?!”

“No not Coach Lawrence.” Jim lifted his chin, “ _Strickler_.”

“Alright. I’m out.” said Claire, “I’m not risking getting on Ms. Janeth’s bad side just before auditions.”

Toby and Jim didn’t move, but rather started to mirror dramatic Sherlock Holmes poses. Leaning closer together when Strickler passed a business card to Coach Lawrence.

“Do you think Strickler’s asking him to join his evil club?” asked Toby.

“To make him, like, some evil coach puppet?”

“Yeah! I mean they work in a school, they could easily shape kids for some _evil_ child army. Bending the minds of the youth.”

“Yeah…with, P.E.” nodded Jim seriously.

Claire threw her hands in the air, shook her head and stomped away with, “Adiós.”

Jim waved his hand distractedly and peered closer, leaning against a locker in the hopes it would hide his very obvious looming presence. Toby followed just as obviously behind.

“I assure you, her shop has quite the assortment of flowers. Why, I was even able to stumble across heather!”

The rare floral find was lost to Coach Lawrence, as well as to the eavesdropping boys. They heard Strickler clear his throat in the silence.

Toby mouthed, _Who’s Heather?_ While Jim clenched his fists.

Lawrence took his baseball cap off and scratched his receding hairline with his thumb considering the business card, “So, I don’t need to know, flower talk?”

“The language of flowers? Doubtful. The clerk there is very helpful.” Strickler paused, pulling a hand thoughtfully out of his pocket, “I do have a book you could borrow, if you like.”

“What are _you_ dweebs doing??” came a rather whistled question.

Jim and Toby flinched slightly, before rolling their eyes.

“Nothing Steve.” went Toby.

“Don’t look like nothing.” Steve leaned to the side crossing his arms, “You eavesdropping, Lake?”

“No, I’m trying to break into a locker.” went Jim, pushing off from the locker he was leaning on.

Steve took a moment to consider the validity of Jim’s statement. A little too long of a moment before going, “That’s bogus.”

Jim groaned instead of the rude quip he wanted to respond with, and ran a hand over his face. “Just, leave us alone Steve - can you?”

“I bet you could snag test answers! You snagging test answers?” continued Steve, who chose to ignore Jim.

“I should hope not.” drawled Strickler from behind. He raised his coffee mug to sip at.

“What are you kids loitering around here for?” Went Coach Lawrence.

The three of them started to turn various shades of red for different reasons. Jim re-clenched his fist. Toby grabbed at Jim’s arm.

“We were ah, just passing through coach!” rectified Toby with an awkward chuckle.

“A likely story.” went Coach Lawrence.

“I believe Miss Janeth’s classroom is that way.” Strickler pointed the way with his mug. “And I, shall take my leave. Coach.” he nodded, raising his mug cheerfully, “Children.” and the jolly principal hummed all the way to his office.

“Man has he got it bad.”

“Got what bad, coach?” Asked Steve.

Lawrence replied with a long blow of his whistle, and started clapping, “That’s enough! I want to see some _hustle_ boys! Get to class! Motor!”

“We’re motoring we’re motoring!” called Toby, dragging Jim along with him by the arm. “Yeesh!”

Steve hustled faster than the pair of them combined, and didn’t see Jim wiggle his way out of Toby’s grasp the instant another hallway appeared.

“Jimbo! We’re gonna be late!”

Jim ignored this. He ran down the hallway to a sharp left, ducked out of sight from Coach Lawrence, (who had gone back to considering the business card he was given).

The bell rang, and the door to Principal Strickler’s office all but busted open.

The principal nearly doused himself in his own coffee. “Mr.” he cleared his throat, “Lake. I dare say your attendance-“

“Who’s Heather?”

Strickler lowered his coffee mug onto a coaster. “I beg your pardon?”

“Heather, who is she?” Jim repeated with an accusatory point. Strickler continued to blink back, feeling very lost, and reminded of the first time someone tried to explain electrical currents to him. “I heard you talking about her to Coach Lawrence! Who is she? Are you cheatin-“

The connection was finally made, “Heather is a type of flower, Jim.” The sharpness in Jim’s pointed finger dulled. “A rather rare flower to find seeing as it’s not native California. But the florist I encountered did have it all the same.”

“What? But, Coach-“

“What Coach Lawrence intends to do, I believe, is Coach Lawrence’s business…don’t you agree?”

Jim scratched his head. “Uh..yeah…yeah..” he felt slightly in a daze, and barely noticed the paper being pressed into his hand.

“Now I suggest you go along your way before you get detention. Or worse, Miss Janeth’s ire.” Strickler mused, before leaning against his piano.

Jim looked at the paper, not quite registering the written excuse for being late that was there. “This isn’t over Strickler.”

“Far from it! Ta ta for now.” Walter Strickler sing-songed.

 

That night Jim stared long and hard at the bouquet over dinner. He didn’t know the names to many of the flowers arranged, but he did spot the heather.

~

The kitchen was full of wafting smells that only added to Barbara’s hunger. It seeped into the living room where Barbara waited, and masked the the lingering smell of tobacco, and the musk of a used book store, but not too much. The books that were once scattered strategically around the apartment were now either in an unused spot on Walter’s shelves or stacked on counters like literary lighthouses.

There were more of the same masks she had seen in Walter’s office hung on the wall, and on a counter by the window was a display of what Barbara imagined was a collection of various pipes through history. Some with comically deep bowls, others with long stems that reminded her of Gandalf’s, each with various amount of relief carving of leaves and ivies, one looked like an amateur’s attempt at hand making a pipe, and one looked so old that if breathed on Barbara felt it might crumble.

Another thing Barbara distinctly noticed, was the lack of family photos. Not that she expected a bachelor to have the same amount as a single mother, but a group family vacation photo, perhaps. Something commemorating or remembering a time spent together, unified. 

“The stove is being finicky, but it shouldn’t take much longer now.” Walter called, his voice growing closer as he sauntered out from the kitchen while carrying two glasses and a bottle.

“You bought Rosé!” Barbara observed gleefully, placing her hands together. He passed her a glass, and set his own on a coaster.

“Well,” Walter started with a cheeky smile, “there was a certain theory I wanted to,” he uncorked the bottle, “test.”

“Please tell me you didn’t take the Rosé jab to heart. It was the first thing I could think of on the spot.”

“Nonsense!” he laughed, “It was good thinking, and you’ll probably be right - to no one’s surprise. Most sugary drinks can go straight to my head, you know.”

Barbara gave a snort and leaned forward presenting her glass, “Game on.”

“You’ll have to tell me if it’s any good. The name caught me more than anything.” He turned the bottle and imitated a fancy waiter.

“‘Yay Rosé’?! Pfff, love it already.”

“The name did seem fun.”

The bottle’s label also had a fun design. With a French art deco font that arched over three friends. Two of which looked like they were sharing deliciously scandalous news, and the third who, with a look of ecstatic surprise, looked out at the potential owner of the bottle pointing to something unseen.

They went through half the bottle accompanied with Walter’s roast beef, and oven roasted potatoes laced with olive oil and rosemary. 

By the end of the meal, they were as bubbly as the drink.

“Alright, alright. Your turn- try an American accent.”

Walter smirked, and in the most British he could make his accent said, “Baseball.”

“I’m serious!”

He gave her a coy look and sighed dramatically, not that it fooled her. “Hello, Washington, have ya hurd the yeehaw news?”

Barbara lost it at hello, and it was a miracle she was still in her chair by yeehaw.

“Reckon that cauliflower can be tangled.”

“Walt I can’t, oh my goodness.” She heaved between laughing gasps.

“There goes the waterhole!”

Barbara held onto her chair for support, “I can’t.” she clutched her stomach, “Oh man, I don’t think I can trust you.”

“You calling me a liar, partner?”

“Yes. Good golly, yes! You’re too good at accents, and this so called ‘poisonous’ meal I was promised, was too good.”

Returning to his usual speech pattern, Walter cheered his glass in a ‘thank you’, smiling all the while. “Well, darn. I’ll try and make it worse next time.”

In a smooth motion Barbara got up and walked around the table, “Well, I wouldn’t want you to purposefully inhibit your cooking potential.” Walter watched her as she trailed her hand across the table as she walked. “But I _can_ think of a way to put this repaying pushing thing to bed.”

“Can you now?” he

Intent in her dazzling eyes. He rose to meet her, (in more ways than one).

~

When Jim entered into the kitchen, he saw his mother humming about. A soft smile on her lips as she cleaned the kitchen counter, and emptied the dish-washer.

All of which wasn’t too puzzling. It was seeing her put a metal spoon in the freezer that really made the innocent youth wonder.

~

_“So, how do you feel?” Anna asked tentatively._

_“Good.” Was Barbara’s immediate response. She raised her arms to cross them over her stomach, and quickly found herself holding her stomach instead, “Good.” she confirmed with a little more thought._

_“Not scared?”_

_“Oh, freaking terrified.”_

_“Yeah baby stuff in an empty room creeps me out too.”_

_“Anna!”_

_“Kidding! Kidding!” she paused and looked around the would be baby room of the Lake house hold. The crib in waiting still with a giant yellow bow. The walls lined with baby gifts on hand painted shelves. The rocking chair with plushy baby books. “No but really, do you ever pass by here at night to go to the bathroom, and get like, a little shiver? A tiny yikes? Like, I blame Hollywood mostly for all the baby imagery they use in horror - baby even the video game industry.”_

_“Are you done?” snickered Barbara._

_Anna smiled and put an arm around her friend, “Maybe.”_

_“I don’t know what I’d do without you Anna.”_

_And Anna was gone. Out of existence, out from the room in a single blink._

_Anna was gone, but the crib was a little closer to Barbara. Closer, and filled with water._

_“What the-?”_

_The water level in the crib started to rise more and more, and it didn’t show any signs of stopping._

_“James?” Barbara called over her shoulder. Slowly stepping backwards towards the door._

_But the door was closed, and what’s worse - it was locked as well._

_“James?! This isn’t funny.” she warned._

_The water was overflowing from the crib and onto the bedroom floor now. Bits of kelp, would somehow find its way to float on the surface, while small fish would dart about._

_“JAMES?!” She called again with a rising sense of urgency._

_The water level was up to her knees now, and Barbara was starting to cry. Slamming her fist against the door while her hands ache more and more._

_“Grant?! GRANT ARE YOU THERE??” She called again sobbing._

_She didn’t want to be trapped here with the water now up to her waist. It wouldn’t be long until it’ll rise past her shoulders._

_“Anyone?! ANYONE??” She pleaded with a sob, her hands cracking against the wood of the door. She yelped when she felt a fish trail close to her belly._

_And soon she was under the water entirely. The crib floating in front of her, the big yellow bow billowing eerily. A giant yellow tendril that waved a final farewell before succumbing to an unseeable bottom. More fish came and went, and her lungs started to ache._

_Barbara, pregnant and bloated, started swimming upwards, more and more, and the longer it took for her to reach anything that looked like a surface or even a ceiling; the more she believed she wasn’t in her house anymore. Rather, somewhere familiar. Or so it felt, like revisiting a childhood nightmare._

_What’s worse Barbara doubted any direction she swam towards to be the direction of the surface. Her lungs started to burn, and when she couldn’t maintain her breath anymore she gagged._

_Water filled Barbara’s lungs. Choking for air that wouldn’t come. And in that dark vast abyss where movement had resistance, and what was up, and down, and right and left, obscured to a map only fish knew; someone responded_.

 

When Barbara woke up she found herself tightly in Walter’s arms. It wasn’t too tight a hold, but a hold that let Barbara know she wasn’t alone. With a sigh she relaxed a little more into his arms. Her cheeks were stained with tears. From the way her hair stuck to her face she could tell she had been sweating as well.

“Walter?” She croaked, voice feeling scratchy. In the dark Barbara felt him thumb her shoulder.

“I’m here.”

“I, had a nightmare.” she said, feeling silly pointing out the obvious. Barbara opened and closed her mouth a few times before asking, “Did, did I scream?”

“No.”

Barbara cleared her throat, “Oh.”

“You did talk, and moved a bit.”

“Oh.” she repeated with another level of weight.

“Would you like to talk about it?” 

“Not really.” she admitted.

Walter nodded in silence. “Would you like some water?”

Barbara shivered, and sniffled, “No thank you.”

Walter nodded again, and pressed his head against her slightly.

“Walt?”

“Yes, Barbara?”

She closed her eyes, and rested her hand on his thumbing it in a thankful gesture. His thumb moved to rest over hers, and slowly their hands entangled together.

“What kind of nightmares do you get? Do you…get any repeating ones?”

Walter gave himself more time to answer with a pressed kiss into her hair. She felt his chest rise deeply.

“I’m not sure about repeating, but it is thematically similar. Lot of, tough choices, ghosts of repercussions…and a fear the earth will swallow me up.”

“Do you think it means anything?”

In the dark Barbara couldn’t see the solemn look in his face that made him feel all his long lived years, but she could hear his voice, (in an undetected forced lightness) say, “Perhaps, to lay off the marmite.”

She smiled at that, and turned to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you. I mean it. I, think I’ll take you up on that water after all.”

~

Walter Strickler sat in his office, and sat his pen down to stretch as far as he could reach to the ceiling.

“Principal Strickler?” said Coach Lawrence from the door.

“Hm? Oh, come in.” said the principal relaxing back into his chair. “How may help? Did everything go alright?”

“It did actually!”

“I’m glad to hear.” went Strickler, steepling his fingers together politely.

“You were right about the florist. In fact I wanted to tell you that there’s even a greenhouse around the back.”

“Is there now?” Strickler pinched his chin thoughtfully and imagined himself and Barbara sitting together under a wisteria branch, “I’ll have to give it a visit sometime.”

“It’s free to visit and walk through. Oh, and,” Coach Lawrence readjusted his hat some, “I wanted to thank you again for the book.”

~

Walter Strickler was waiting for Barbara downstairs of the Lake household. They had made plans to visit a restaurant in the downtown area. While he waited, Walter busied himself by looking at the various family pictures that decorated the walls of the living room and hallway.

He gazed at a young Jim swinging a baseball bat, and nodded to himself remembering an instant where he threw one of his knives at Jim and watched him bat it right back, nearly hitting him. If Walter remembered correctly, it was during the dinner date when he tried to swap out the amulet with a false replica he had made.

He squinted at an old black and white photo of an old gentleman with an impressive mustache, and tried to imagine the gentleman younger. Walter Racked his mind, wondering if he recognized him.

There was Barbara in graduation gowns with a Jim no older than, perhaps seven or eight. He stared very impressed at that one for a while, and wondered to himself just how the pair of them bravely managed.

Meandering down the hallway Walter stopped in front of a picture of a bespectacled military man. There was a vase of white lilies just beneath it. He had a rather serious gaze he recognized in both Barbara and Jim. His gaze softened on the green of the man’s uniform while he wondered who this man was. Though the more he stared at his military uniform, the more Walter Strickler’s thoughts went elsewhere.

_Thelull of the onslaught was over._

_The sun was rising, a horn was called for the troops to return. The remaining changelings collecting troll remains for future Grave Sand use stood up, looking around like rabbits through a field. Their glowing eyes peering through the mist followed the retreating soldiers like ghastly scavengers._

_Those unable to walk, and left to the mercy of the coming sun, felt particularly tense._

_Some even tried to strike bargains with passing changelings - to bring them means of shade._

_“Please, “ they’d beg, regretting every moment of ever using the word ‘impure’, “help me survive the day.”_

_And those changeling eyes, like a pair of snake eyes, bobbing through the mist would smile, smile, smile. Relishing the moment. Soaking in the irony._

_“Oh? Bargains such delicious bargains.” They’d respond, voices dripping with venomous cheer. “And what will you do for me?”_

_It was a wonderful way to learn secrets. Hands itching for deals, and no magic to force them to keep their word. Thank Le Fay for that, or curse Her, depending on the situational coin toss._

_Behind the remains of a petrified troll, sitting side by side in pain together, bleeding out, was Stricklander and Kloth._

_Stricklander didn’t know Kloth very well, and by the looks of the poor half-breed he probably never will. Oozing purple blood and puss trailed down his face. His exterior damage was nothing like the interior._

_Damages to the stone no amount of back and forth changing could fix. Cloth soon admitted he couldn’t change even if he wanted to, too tired, too fatigued. It was doubtful their arm would grow back anyways. Made for a good dark joke though._

_“You’ve given me enough of a hand. You should go.” Kloth managed to say, voice gurgling with the coming bile._

_“Oh I’m in no hurry, sibling. Just catching, my breath.” Stricklander exhaled, and with a pitying glance at Kloth he added, “I heard the view here is rather nice, for sunrises.”_

_“It is, isn’t it.” went the half-breed, head too heavy to move more than an odd tilt._

_Their weapons grew heavier and heavier in their laps. Kloth’s breath started to become shallow._

_“The birds are nice here, and the air is cool…it’s a good place…for a last trick.”_

_Stricklander nodded, adding pressure to his own oozing side._

_“I took out five trolls from that bush.” the dying changeling would boast._

_“How so?”_

_“Poisoned, tips, and a good underarm jab.”_

_“That is clever.”_

_“Cleary not Shigir clever.” the changeling would laugh darkly, before coughing up bile. “My trick ran stale. Someone must have seen what I was doing in the battle. Attacked me head on.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Bet it was Bredbeddle who whispered in the troll’s ear.” Kloth continued, not entirely hearing Stricklander._

_A pause befell the both of them. The breeze was a welcome comfort to their aching bodies. A swallow perched itself on the petrified troll corpse._

_“Must be, beautiful on the mountains, this time of year.”_

_“Must be.” went Stricklander, feeling dumb. Wishing he could think of something else to add._

_“I wish I’d have died there, instead of dying here.”_

_“There’s good minerals here, and the earth is warm.” Stricklander would try and entice, almost wishing he could join Kloth. He ran a hand through the soil, feeling its dark richness._

_“Does, make for, good flowers.” Kloth agreed, trying to smile._

_“You’ll make a beautiful buttercup.” Stricklander wheezed, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he tried to readjust his position._

_Kloth gave a haggard, painful laugh._

_“Do you want to hear a dirty joke?” Asked Kloth in a raspy breath._

_“Very much.”_

_“A troll, walks,” Kloth attempted to gesture with their hand, but was barely able to lift it. They licked their lips instead. “Into a quarry with sagging stones.” he coughed, “huge stones, and goes ‘a landslide is coming and we’re full, to the brim,”_

_Silence followed. It lingered. And Stricklander realized he’ll never hear the end of the joke. Or maybe that was the joke all along._

_Kloth died._

_And Stricklander had to get up._

_The rest of the war was waiting, and as much as he wished to join Kloth, Stricklander told himself, I must go on standing._

Stricklander- Walter Strickler felt Barbara’s hand rest gently on his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Walt?” she gently turned him, “Earth to Walter?”

The changeling blinked at her, and inhaled deeply at the sight of her. Dressed in a turquoise and pale burgundy cocktail dress with a deep cut collar, and a simple golden necklace that looped twice around her neck.

“You look, amazing Barbara.”

Barbara smiled, her cheeks tinting into a blush, “Thank you.” she said. She stepped forward and smoothed out the lapels of his dark navy jacket, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He pressed a thankful kiss on the cheek at that.

“I was looking around.” he tried to explain with a vague hand gesture.

Barbara nodded, “My brother, Grant. He’s, no longer with us.”

“I see, my condolences.”

“Thank you, it wasn’t recent. Have I talked to you about him before?”

“Only once,” he cleared his throat, “a very brief mention. It was during your,”

“Nightmare.” Barbara finished for him with a nod. “Yeah…yeah.” she raised her head and looked at the picture fondly, touching one of the lily leaves as though the act would transfer onto Grant.

“He always looked out for me when we were kids. My dad had a, a temper, and until I knew how to snap back…well, there was always Grant.” Barbara bit her lip, “He always wanted to help others, a very selfless kid who grew into a very selfless man. He saved my life you know. When I was a kid. It was late, and I didn’t want to go back home yet- and somehow that equalled me to, well…” Barbara took a moment to collect her words.

“I don’t know why, I don’t remember the reason, but for whatever reason, I took a small boat out onto the lake. It felt right. When everyone later asked ‘why’ I…I just said, it was because I wanted to be alone, to think…but…I don’t know.” Barbara turned her hands over and thoughtfully rubbed her hands, “And these, waves crashed into the boat…I fell over…and I started to drown.”

Walter opened his mouth, wanting to mention she didn’t have to continue if telling him felt difficult, but he read the determination in her blue eyes. The want to continue. Respectfully, he closed his mouth and listened on.

“I’ve always been a strong swimmer.” she reasoned, like one who repeatedly fended off statements that suggested otherwise. “There was just something about those waves. Three. Large. Waves. That made, that just messed with my sense of direction. I wasn’t even that far off from shore. I just remember how, the sheer shock of how cold it was.” Barbara gave herself a moment to breath, and remind herself that she could breath, and nodded, “I was lucky Grant was there with me. Very lucky.” She chuckled and wiped something from her eye, “As they say, the Gichi-gami* rarely gives up her dead.”

 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Barbara turned and looked up at Walter, his expression sincere, his eyes patient, and warm. She smiled at him and rested a hand on his forearm in a thankful quiet gesture.

“I think you and Grant would have been good friends.”

“I would have liked to have met him. I’m sure he made a fine Sargent First Class as well.”

Barbara furrowed her brows, “How did you-?”

As explanation, Walter pointed to the stripes on Grant’s uniform. “I would have enjoyed sitting and discussing tactics with him.”

“Playing Risk was insufferable with him.” she laughed. “He’d either take forever to make a decision or just flip a coin.”

Barbara smiled fondly back at the picture, and sighed squeezing Walter’s forearm again. Walter placed a hand over hers, still looking at the picture. It was then that Barbara saw that something in his eyes again. That far off look, as if he was looking at something else, as though he were somewhere else.

She looked back at her brother’s picture, and herd herself ask softly, “Walter, were you in the military?”

He was quite for a long time.

So long Barbara started to wonder if perhaps it was too personal a question.

Until Walter finally answered, “Yes, and no.” He cleared his throat and rubbed at his earlobe, “At a young age, I decided to join the Merchant Navy.” he half-lied, “as a sort of, erm, self imposed conscription. Until I figured out what I wanted to do with myself. It felt like forever, but it didn’t last long.”

“Oh.”

“I stayed long enough to become a Petty Officer - though really, I’m petty enough as it is.” he cracked giving her a gentle nudge.

Barbara rolled her eyes and smirked, nudging him back. “We should probably get going.”

“Probably.” Walter smiled. “And, thank you. For telling me about your brother, about, well…”

“Thank you for listening.” she gently smiled.

~

Barbara was deep in a rant about vaccines, and the absurdity of how some parents still don’t want to vaccinate their kids. Even going so far as to explain how some age old diseases are starting to slowly crop up again. “I mean, yeah the cases are rare, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening! This is how we get tuberculosis again people!” Her cheeks red with passion about the subject, the tiniest of creases between her brows, and her eyes sparkling like polished daggers dipped in sapphire.

Walter had been staring at her dopily with a smile, filled with fondness, as she verbally tore to shreds the disgraced Andrew Wakefield.

When her eyes flashed his way, it sent him an electrified realization. A realization that was utterly, utterly terrifying. 

_Oh merde_. thought Walter. _Oh, oh no._

Like the coward he was, he wished the feeling could remain unnamed, unmentioned- just felt. He couldn’t say it, not out loud, (not yet), but in that moment- like a brick falling from a skyscraper smashing against his skull, Waltolomew Strickler (Walter Strickler for short) realized;

_I’m in love._

His smile started to slack at the terrifying realization, and the wonder of how it could be possible. He also realized how sore his cheeks felt from smiling so much. His hands grew clammy, an internal panic growing in the chasms of his inner self. A part of him, that didn’t feel like a ditzy school yard boy, roared at him, reprimanded him. _How could you have let this go on for so long? How dare you fall?_

 _Everything falls_ , a detached inner voice explained, _even Rome_.

How long has he felt this way? How could such a feeling creep up on him without even a fair warning?

All is fair in love and war.

Barbara, oblivious and taking the slacked smile as something else entirely, challenged, “What? You don’t agree?”

It pulled Walter back from the depths of his internal frenzy, launching him into a nervous chuckle, in a mediocre attempt to keep his composer, and saying the first (and perhaps overused) quip he could think of, “Well, isn’t laughter the greatest medicine?”

Barbara shot up with a passionate fury, “Not for polio it isn’t!” while fully aware he wasn’t serious.

Walter rolled on his back and dived into a fit of deep bellied laughter. Mixed with nerves and the fond sight of conviction on Barbara’s face.

“I’m being serious!” she said shaking his shoulders. The corners of her mouth betraying the start of being infected by his laughter. She still wanted to rant.

“I know, I know!” Walter managed to wheeze, “Just..your delivery- the way you said it!” He wiped a tear from his eyes.

“Polio is no a laughing matter!” she reprimanded with mirth.

Her very true statement did nothing to subsidize his laughing fit, it only encouraged it. He started rocking side to side with giggles.

“Maybe if it does come back,” his shoulders started to shake, already imagining the outcome to his horrible joke, “there will be a treatment called-“

“Walter don’t-“

“ _Marclio_!!”

Barbara placed her head in her hand, “Oh man, that was a reach.”

To which Walter, still unable to stop laughing, reached his arm around to pull her down to his giggling level.

“No! Stahahap! I still want to rant!” she giggle shrieked, “Gah! I can’t breath!” she managed to say between kisses.

Walter gave a dramatic gasp, and called to the lamp on her bedside table, “Get this woman an iron lung!”

Barbara snorted and pulled away, poking at the very faint freckles on Walter’s face, “See _that_ was clever. That’s a joke I can get behin-“ she was quickly cut off by more kisses. A moan escaping her as they started to rock.

“What do you want?” he breathed into her growing smile.

Her fingers trailed his jaw line, while another hand pressed him closer. She hummed, and laughed into his kiss, “I want Andrew Wakefield drawn and quartered for the vaccine paranoia he caused.”

“D-do you really? I can see if I can have that arranged.” he raised her arm up so he could talk into her armpit as though it was a phone receiver. The light stubble of her armpit hair tickled him as he spoke, “Hullo? We need to get the boys together.”

Barbara squealed laughing, moving her free hand between pushing him and covering her face.

“Yeah that’s right, we got someone who needs to have their head boxed in.”

“It’s drawn and quartered-!” she corrected giggling.

“You’re so right - sorry,” he turned back into her armpit, “You heard the lady.”

“Walt-“

She was cut off by Walter blowing a raspberry into the crook of her armpit. “The line’s dead.” he said very seriously.

She waved his face away, while an impish expression slowly grew. “Hold on there might be another way…”

“Oh my goodness…you’re not..” Barbara covered her face, and did a horrible job at hiding her amusement, biting her lower lip in the process, as Walter tried using her nipple for morse code, “This isn’t happening.” she said laughing.

“Well do you want Andrew dead or don’t you?”

Barbara bit her lip and leaned into him, still feeling a little sensitive from their earlier activities, a grin of her own formed, “I think that line is dead too.”

“Hmm, lets see…” he moved his attention to the next nipple while Barbara’s face slowly grew rosier.

She rested both her arms on his shoulders and shook her head still smiling.

“No?”

“Nope.” she said with an extra emphasis on the ‘p’.

Walter shimmied lower, kissing his way down her stomach, giving extra attention on her stretch-marks. His trail of kisses continued to travel lower, and lower.

“Perhaps I’ll give this a taste-I mean try.”

“You’re really,” Barbara inhaled and bit her lip, her face deepening in hue, “telegraphing your intentions there, Walt-o.”

He hummed into her, and lifted his head teasingly, “You’re right, I should stop.”

Barbara bit her lower lip, and wrapped her legs around his head in response. Walter grinned back, kissing each side of her inner thighs, before lowering his head once more.

She gasped.

~

They finally got around to have a date at the museum. It was in the morning, and helped ease the idea of Barbara’s later work shift.

There weren’t that many visitors inside. With hushed low whispers in far off corners. The distant echoing of footfalls that weren't their own.

Walter enjoyed the hushed quiet of the building, but not as much as he enjoyed watching Barbara inspect the art that was on display. Her eyes that trailed at brush strokes, followed the detail of shading, dissected the use of chiaroscuro. The semi-embarrassed flutter her eyes would do, when she realized how long they might have been staring at one piece of art alone. 

Hand in hand, and sometimes arm and arm, they’d wander the halls. Barbara would give him the same dopey stare whenever he’d state fun facts of history, and squeeze his arm a little closer.

It was by the Renaissance pottery section that Barbara excused herself for the restroom.

He waved after her, “I’ll wait here then.” and his smile slacked with a sigh when she was out of sight.

Slowly, Walter Strickler’s head turned to the pottery display. He stared long and hard at it, and in an almost defeated sort of way Walter placed his hands in his pockets. Answering, “Oh, can it.” to an imagined statement. In a way, he imagined Nomura’s smug face smiling out at him from the pottery.

He chuckled, and shook his head. Walter checked how alone he was in the section while rubbing his nose before saying, “I bet you’re enjoying this.” he paused, and rubbed the back of his neck before letting his hand drop away, “You know, I-“ _love her, say it out loud, admit it at least this much you old coward_ , “quite like her-care for her. Well it’d be obvious to even a blind mole now, wouldn’t it? I wonder how you…well, it doesn’t matter now.”

Strickler paused as if the pottery within the case had some quippy retort.

“Hmph. Well I don’t know how I’ll manage without the ‘I told you so’ dance. All the same…” the changeling paused again, and frowned into the Renaissance pottery, “I wonder if you’re still alive down there.” he pierced his lips, “For the sake of mercy, I hope you’re not.”

“Walter!” cried Barbara in a strained excited hush. Cutting through the heavy moment he was in. “Walter you won’t believe this! You have a historical doppelgänger!”

“I-?” the changeling cleared his throat, and adjusted the lapels of his jacket. “-a what?”

Barbara took his hand excitedly, and pulled him away from the pottery display. Walter gave it a last look before following Barbara.

She took him all the way to the section about old town Arcadia, when it was just a settlement in the West. Eagerly she pointed to a faded and yellowed old photo.

It had a series of people, named and unnamed on a plaque listed below. Some names he recognized, other names he knew were falsified.

In the photo was what one guessed to be the mayor, his family, a few other children, and a very solemn looking schoolteacher. Beside the schoolteacher, sitting on a barrel with an opened book, looking surprised the photo was happening at all, was a teenage Japanese girl in western clothes. 

Strickler had a hunch such a picture wouldn’t have been on display if Nomura was still acting as curator. He stared at himself, and at the young Nomura, and couldn’t remember why the picture was taken in the first place. He couldn’t even remember if the building behind them was the schoolhouse or some other building. He did remember, the reason Nomura was in Arcadia then. The harrowing adventure that took place while she started her career in the Janus Order.

Feeling observed Walter Strickler chuckled as if it was a wild and extraordinary coincidence, “How odd indeed!”

“Odd isn’t the start of it, it’s wild, Walt. Look at those _ears_!”

Defensively Walter rubbed his earlobe, “Oh I don’t know…I’d say they’re average.”

“Walt- look at me. Pff and don’t smile!”

Of course, being told not to smile ended up having the opposite effect by impulse alone. He raised his eyebrows at her.

“I’m serious! Look, look, just- humor me.” she said as she positioned Walter by the picture and rearranged his arms. “Please?” she begged, batting her eyelashes in a way that made him feel helpless.

The changeling looked to the ceiling, as if to catch his breath, and decided the best path was that of least resistance. Figuring it’d be more suspicious if he argued.

“Alright. How do we look?” he asked through a frown.

Barbara squinted at his picture, and at him, and tilted her head to the right, “Identical…although…the eyes in the picture are a little smudgy.”

“ _Smudgy_?” he repeated with a chuckle, enjoying her phrasing.

“Yeah, but I guess that’s more the old time-y camera’s fault. See?” she pointed at his haze like glow, it was similar to a less intense reflected glow when taking a picture of a cat’s eyes. “She has it too.” Barbara noted, pointing to the young Nomura.

“How curious.”

“Still…kinda spooky right? The whole doppelgänger thing.”

Very seriously Walter Strickler placed a hand on her shoulder and deadpanned, “Barbara, that _is_ me.”

At this Barbara threw her head back and laughed, unable to tell the reality in the joke.

The changeling smiled and Barbara rose to her tiptoes and pecked the higher part of his gaunt face, “You and your jokes.”

Later that day Strickler made sure to stop by the Janus Order to see how plausible it’d be to bring another changeling to work at the museum.

 

The Room Where It Happens

 

Otto remembered the night they dragged Stricklander away from their tent. The Great 7 Year March was over and all of Gunmar’s armies, for the first time in years, were all in one spot. Changelings, aside from those under specific servitude to certain high ranking trolls, were allowed to move freely within the armies they arrived with. As long as they kept to the edges and frays of the camp. Those found too close to the center, weren’t often heard from again, and those who were…well…they were never the same.

The autumn cool had just started to creep into the final days of summer. The night air was crisper, the days not as hot.

Otto and Stricklander were joking amongst themselves, nothing particularly important. A Shigir story now and then, attempts to coax Otto to pull a prank. A plot to steal some fried human thigh told in such a way that Otto wasn’t sure if Stricklander was joking or being serious.

Otto doubted such conduct would be easy to get away with, especially with Gunmar’s armies all en-massed together.

In fact, Otto thought it was this very discussion that caused Stricklander to be dragged out of the tent. Perhaps never to be seen again.

How wrong he was.

Two days later, Stricklander returned.

It was an Argante miracle. Otto was so sure his companion was dead. Looking back, Otto would wish he had died. 

Otto would have thought Stricklander was suffering from some sort of concussion with how energetic and inspired he sounded. Except there wasn’t a single scratch on the changeling. They hadn’t hurt him. This should have been a red flag, but he was too happy and curious about the return of his comrade to notice.

“You should have seen him! The way he spoke, the way he acted - never was there such a troll!! I must admit I thought I was done for when they threw me in there - and the look on General Vale’s face!” Stricklander stopped his pacing and rambling for the briefest moments. He closed his eyes with a malicious smile, basking in some unseen light dramatically, “Gods I want that imprinted in my memory forever.”

“Stricklander, I- General Vale?” went Otto. He hadn’t been able to get a word in since Stricklander returned, and barely understood his ramblings.

“Yes Vale! And - pass me that apple will you? - _And_ Zinnias too,” Stricklander huffed catching the apple Otto threw at him, “the old biddy.” he added.

“Speak plainly friend, you’re talking in riddles!”

“What I’m saying is _they’ve_ been found out! _I’ve_ been found out!” Despite the lopsided smile, Stricklander’s voice sounded strained. It teetered between fear and hysterical excitement. The apple shook slightly in Stricklander’s hands.

Otto leaned forward, and furrowed his brows, still trying to piece together Stricklander’s words. Until finally, Otto drew a chilled breath, “No….no!”

“Oh yes.” said Stricklander, he carved into the skin of the apple with his index claw. “ _He_ found out.”

Otto leaned forward voice very low, gripping his knees “How are you _alive_?”

Stricklander looked up from his carving. For a second he had a bewildered look as if not even he knew how it could be possible, but it melted away like hot wax, an eerie smile took its place. “He said he needs me, Otto. He heard about the catapults, about what happened, he was…” Stricklander’s voice dropped even lower, as if admitting it out loud could get them both killed, “he was _impressed,_ Otto. When we spoke…”

Otto rested his head in his hands still beguiled by it all, “I can’t believe you spoke to Gun-“ Otto was cut off by Stricklander throwing his apple at him

“Ssshhhh!” Stricklander half snarled. Then improvised, “Damn apple’s got worms.” loudly with a meaningful look at Otto.

They glanced around their tent, strained their ears to see if they were being listened in on. Frogs croaking distantly and the clank of distant metal workings barely reached their ears. Wind carried indistinct chatter, but nothing out of the ordinary.

“And here I thought you’d love some, my bird brained friend.” Otto said brushing himself off.

“How would you love being dropped from the sky?” Stricklander threatened, grabbing Otto by the cusp of his shoulder. Their act was improvised, but the pain Stricklander delivered was real. For added effect of course, in a Gumm-Gumm camp everyone knows the sound of real pain.

Stricklander’s voice dropped again, continuing their previous conversation “When we spoke…Otto he, he treated me as an _equal_.”

The _what_ Otto wanted to say stopped in his throat. Stricklander dropped him back on his cot, and started to pace. His cloak nearly disrupting the make shift chaturanga board they had made.

Otto continued his impersonation of a fish, his mouth opening and closing. Stricklander only nodded, and caught a chaturanga piece before it fell.

“This,” Stricklander said at last, placing the piece on the board, “can change everything.”

Otto leaned forward to bring the playing board between them, and said loudly, “Why don’t we play for the better apple then?”

“ _Fine_.” said Stricklander, theatrically, plopping onto the adjacent cot.

“And…” Otto looked up at him from across the board. Attempting to read his comrade, marching companion, friend- trying to see if some semblance of the changeling from when they first met was still there.

The clever eyes were there, the dry amusement that oozed out his voice, the cynicism that battled with some internal sentimentality Otto was sure was there (despite Stricklander’s refusal of it).

“And the loser?” asked Otto to the changeling who, despite acting so carefree, looked like he aged more in two days than their entire military career thus far.

“The loser?” Stricklander repeated, stretching a leg out to roll the thrown apple closer to himself. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, as if coddling a small egg, “the loser has to leave…and the loser - cutting his losses, must use what he can grasp in his service to the winner, so maybe, maybe he’ll be able to help other losers along the way.” it was clear Stricklander was no longer talking about their chaturanga game. “If the loser is good at loosing…let him lose.” Slowly, Stricklander picked off some dust from the maltreated apple, “Someday, it won’t seem like loosing.”

“One can hope.” said Otto, slowly lowering his eyes. 

They played chaturanga for the last time that night. The next morning Stricklander was taken to the center of the camp, and declared personal secretary to Gunmar. 

What Otto didn’t know, was that Gunmar was losing forces faster than the Decimaar Blade could brain wash them. And while Gunmar was indeed a brilliant general, the same couldn’t be said for all under his service - and Gunmar couldn’t be everywhere at once (despite how much he made it seem like he could be).

Because of less than apt generals, they were loosing ground, and the tactic of direct confrontation was working against his forces. One could point and bellow, “Attack attack!” so many times.

Sure there were tactical maneuvers that were played, psychological warfare of surrounding camps, of beating shields and chanting, but the enemy was catching on.

So Gunmar needed something the enemy wouldn’t catch on to, until it was too late. A way of thinking so unlike them, the enemy wouldn’t even consider it.

Enter the Tactician, enter the horned changeling, enter Stricklander.

In time rumors would spread saying Stricklander became consumed with his new title, but the strategies were working. In half a century some say Stricklander started to become cocky, almost flaunting his position with remarks other changelings wouldn’t dare say. Other changelings weren’t on Gunmar’s right hand side.

Another century and a very small espionage groups called Mercury’s Raiders was formed. They were a select group, formed of both trolls and changelings. Following Stricklander’s direct orders, under anyone else (save Gunmar) they were but miscreants.

There were those who were scandalized by its conception - they either tended to disappear, or were gifted generous items. Gunmar appreciated and respectfully feared this new wave of intelligence, as Gunmar was no fool. Because of this, he started to keep Stricklander closer, and watched.

The battle strategies kept working, but it started to become obvious which playing pieces Stricklander would rather sacrifice - between trolls and half-breeds. The open favoritism, the growing numbers in Mercury’s Raiders, the want for changeling glory masked under the will of The Pale Lady, and intoxication of political pursuits, ever dissatisfied of his place.

It was that recognizable dissatisfied hunger that first caught Gunmar’s eye when the impure stepped foot into his tent that fatal/fateful night so long ago.

Gunmar wouldn’t stand for that. Gunmar would see to it that his prized aide de camp was reminded of his place, and humbled.

 _Perhaps the mangling of Stricklander’s horns was the best thing to happen to him. It could have been his neck_ , thought Otto at some point.

Not only were Stricklander’s horns mangled, he was forced to personally kill every member of Mercury’s Raiders before Gunmar and his top generals.

They were all lined up, side by side. The hall was large, the sound of gasps and stifled crying echoed well.

Ghauri, Bazdarev, Kantor, Naomi, Mauro, Hilda, Aoki, Montero, Gak, Maximus, Sybil, Tatiana, Vickers, Alek, Luz, Smalls, Carin, Baas, Gonzalo, and Bruna. 

Up until the last second, blade full of blood, face full of dust, Stricklander believed (and wished) that included himself as well. Yet Gunmar, for all his brilliance, still needed that conniving mind.

O Ibex! O Ibex! Whose horns do you wear?  
To what wind do you Swear?  
O Ibex! O Ibex! What crown do you covet?  
Now that you are a chained up puppet?  
                                          - camp taunting chorus after ‘The Humbling’

The winter of 1083 arrived, and once again Gunmar’s armies were pulled together. There were more of them now, and not even half the full army was present.

There was a heavy snowfall during the day, that made the entire camp blanketed by a bone white shroud. The air so dry it caused a sharpness to the lungs. The trees as bare as skeletons with hooked icicles, and snow laced trim to hang off its branches. The sky; an uneven overcast blanket, as if a painter was testing the right amount of white and black to make the perfect shade of gray. Some clouds darker than others.

Otto had just finished his rounds of patrol, and was heading back to the fringes of the camp when he heard it. The slight tinkling of bells. There was a strange foreboding dissonance to the sounds. Especially in such a naturally muted landscape filled with snow. The sound echoed off the tents, and trees, and was absorbed into the snow. Because of this, the source of the bells practically snuck up on Otto.

With a turn Otto jumped, in the way some do when re-examining an area that ought to be empty of people (and was just a moment ago), only to find out someone was there all along.

That someone was Stricklander. One would think he was marching to his own funeral drum with the pace he was going at. His mantle of feathered blades iced, the leather frosted with a bit of icicles on its hem.

“Stricklander!” went Otto rushing over clumsily through the snow, occasionally sinking into an area that was a bit deeper than he had anticipated.

The taller changeling hid his wince well, and kept walking forward. “Oh Otto, is that you?” said Stricklander pleasantly without looking at him.

Otto looked his comrade over and, of course, the first thing that came to the forefront of Otto’s attention was Stricklander’s horns. Reduced to jagged uneven stumps, with bits of green puss at what could be called tips. Sometimes the puss would drip onto the blades of Stricklander’s mantle. Better there than Gunmar’s war room.

Despite their new grotesque shape, Otto was more worried about the bells that hung at their base. From the look of him, one could guess Stricklander was out dancing La Cambiatella all day.

Stricklander patiently waited for the obvious examination to end

“Did they do this to you?”

Stricklander, in a move of self hatred, readied himself a look at Otto, but it changed when he noticed Otto meant the bells- not his horns. 

“No.” Stricklander stopped walking. A smile stretched, struggling to reach his eyes. That old amused humor that danced in his clever eyes lacked a warmth to them. Now sharper, brisker, like a winter gale, “I thought I’d give the situation a more festive touch.” Despite the pain it’d cause to have the tiny bells hit against his head and horns, Stricklander gave his head a little cheerful shake.

Otto blanched and raised his hands, worried, and fearful. “SSsssh! If Gunmar hears you taking this lightly-“

“He okayed it, actually. Under the means of drawing attention to my shame.” he said matter of factly. “There’s even a song about me, have you heard it?”

Of course Otto had heard it. Everyone had heard it. Otto wasn’t sure how to respond, the semblance of dry humor felt off-putting.

Stricklander didn’t wait for a response and merely noted to no one in particular, “I really have come a long way.” and started walking again towards the center of the camp.

Otto struggled to keep up through the snow. At least until Otto decided to morph into a larger troll, like one of Gunmar’s mindless green and black helmeted ones. It was a risk to impersonate a troll soldier like that. Otto hadn’t done something so foolish since before the Great 7 Year March. He did it anyways under the pretense of friendship, and curiosity.

Stricklander didn’t bat an eye, his smile turned more grim. “Worried?”

“When it comes to you?” went Otto not looking at him. “Consistently.”

Stricklander’s snicker sounded more like sharpened blades. “You know, they might grow suspicious that you’re not carrying a spear.”

Otto said nothing, and repressed gulping. They walked in silence through the snow together. The bells, on what remained of Stricklander’s horns, chiming through the winter. An upbeat hopeful sound that followed the haunted.

“Luckily for us it is so close to fleshling Yule.” Stricklander commented with another painful jingle, before tittering some pagan tune that had more to do with Saturnalia than Yule. Otto could barely catch any of it. Some words being far too dead to recognize, other words too strangely accented to catch. It sounded bittersweet however, like most winter songs. 

Despite not understanding, Otto listened, every now and then trying to guess at a meaning with context clues and Latin knowledge. He could only conclude that, like most winter songs, it was something about transitions, how ends are beginnings, and other contradictions. 

Stricklander stopped his singing as well as his walking. His gaze traveling over the large tent before him, it was large enough to fit three elephants. Otto followed his gaze and forced himself not to shift nervously where he stood.

“Are you still trying to propose an intelligence group? Even after what happened with Mercury’s-“

Stricklander cut him off, “Gunmar needs intelligence.” a pause while he quietly enjoyed the joke in such phrasing. His face became hard to read soon after, “Battle’s can’t be won blind. In so many words, he agrees with me. He trusts the artifacts, understands the allegiance of the Pale Lady.” Stricklander exhaled, and watched the steam from his mouth rise and twist in front of him.

There was, of course, another side to this coin; without intelligence Stricklander’s strategies might start failing more…and with that it could risk his indispensability. Without that, how could he possibly rise above his station?

“If he agrees, then why…why did he…”

“My intentions were obvious.” _I failed them_ , he wanted to say, but that would just bring on a bout of Welling. He couldn’t risk that, not now- not when he needed to act. He’ll sink into that pit another day.

Stricklander shifted his gaze to the clouds, exhaled, and watched the difference from the steam from his mouth and the graphite clouds above. “I’d like to think even he was intimidated by them…intimidated by what they could’ve become. Gunmar isn’t is a fool. There’s a reason he’s held power for so long.” Stricklander pulled the leather mantle tighter around him, “Needless to say, it is a good trick to go out on…”

“If…if he’s already agreeing with you that he needs information, then..”

“Why so much struggle to get a _another_ group together? Gunmar doesn’t like to look contradictory, you know that, and the fact that it is something _I’m_ trying to push forward doesn’t help either. He might be convinced..”

“..but the others, not so much…” Otto finished with a shake of his head in understanding. More sound started to echo through the grounds, as more trolls started to wake up. “What are you going to do?”

“Whatever it takes.” his words rung like a nail digging deeper into a coffin. “I’m close, so _close_ , but there’s still a pair that needs convincing.”

“What will happen if you fail?” Otto asked ominously.

Stricklander tore his eyes away from the clouds, and looked up at Otto. His stare difficult to understand, cat like, until breaking the stare with a dry smirk.

With his hand Stricklander motioned for his grin to expand into a smile, and silently walked into the tent.

Stricklander’s phantom words surged forward from the depths of Otto’s memory, from a time before the 7 Year March. “Smile Otto, it’s only a war.”

Otto watched Stricklander walk into the tent alone, the jingling from the bells hung in the air.

Later two of Gunmar’s top men and generals Thrüz and Vilme emerged from beyond the camp, looking like living snow mounds. With little fanfare they entered the tent.

Years later Otto would contemplate to himself why he stuck around and waited for the outcome. Was it friendship? Was it self preservation to be the first to hear the news, and try and find a way to use it? Was it both?

Otto would later wonder what would have become of him, if he had moved on from that spot. On dark nights he would imagine that perhaps, he would have died. On darker nights he would wish he had.

Otto busied himself with impromptu carving, trying to look busy in his impersonated troll form while keeping an eye on the tent.

He would watch as Vilme would push back the tent flap and bellow for some poor changeling currier. Hours would pass, and the currier would enter into the tent, shaking for their life. Another hour or so, and the currier would be sent off once again.

More hours- food was brought - more hours, another currier, more hours…and something started to change.

Otto straightened as the smell of fire filled his nose, he furrowed his brow as he tried to look around and pinpoint some sort of source.

The camp wasn’t usually this loud. It could be an attack, except Otto recognized what happens in the camp when they are under attack. There’s a level of alertness that’s sharp, instant, bells, gongs, drums would sound an accompaniment to marching formations. But this, this was gradual.

Because of how slow and gradual it was Otto didn’t notice how there were more soldiers wandering on duty than usual.

Otto followed the currier’s path with his eyes, holding his breath and wishing he could understand.

The changeling currier didn’t stay in the tent long, and was soon after dragged out of the tent, hauled away by a troll soldier screaming mercy.

Otto stood as a reflex, and cursed himself for doing so as it caught the attention of a passing Bular. Despite his youth, he was looking more and more like his father in the passing decades. Snow still gathered on the small of his back (where he was unable to wipe off).

“You there.” Bular pointed with his weapon. Otto started mentally wishing to the Pale Lady to see another day while standing at attention, “Get to your station.” a realization dawned slowly on Bular’s face, “Where’s your weapon?” he growled.

Otto gazed around, and realized (thank Le Fay!) he had been sitting next to a weapon’s stand. Otto picked up a spear, twirled the snow off, and stood at attention again.

“Good.” snorted Bular, “Now get, there’s much to be done.” and Bular slouched on with a low grumble in his throat, his tail dragging behind leaving a trail in the snow.

Otto marched up to the tent and pretended to stand guard outside. No one payed him any attention. He tried desperately to hear what was happening inside, what was being discussed, but the camp was getting so loud now.

It wasn’t until he watched three changelings run in the distance, followed by soldiers, only to be cornered and captured, did he begin to understand.

He watched in horror and unable to move as the scene would play out. Those who tried to fight back, were killed on the spot.

Finally Thrüz lumbered out of the tent with a snort, the snow that was on him now melted away. He was followed by Vilme’s voice saying, “-a price. Give our regards to Gunmar, Stricklander.” and then Vilme herself.

Stricklander was the last to leave the tent although, unlike the trolls, he didn’t go on his way, but lingered next to Otto.

“Hullo Otto.” he said quietly without turning his head. Stricklander had always been good at seeing through Otto’s disguises.

He watched the rising chaos of the camp, the distant glow of fire that came from the edges of the campsite.

“They’re rounding up changelings left and right.” Otto heard himself say, doing little to hide his fear and concern. Forced to continue looking forward to keep his soldier’s guise. The growing embers reflected eerily on the snow capped tents, giving the impression of a landscape of distant candles. The glow; the fire, the snow; the wax.

“Not all of them.” answered Stricklander, clutching at the bells now in his hand.

“Stricklander, what is happening?”

“General Vale is finally getting what he always wanted…order.”

Otto didn’t understand, or perhaps he didn’t want to understand. The distant yelling was starting to make him feel sick. In desperation he tried to side eye Stricklander to get a sense of his expression. It was cloudy, serious, detached and cold. But most of all, tired.

“Otto. Listen to me very carefully, you need to let yourself get captured.”

“ _What_?”

“It’s a test. You’d think they’d want to use the changelings that can avoid capture- but they don’t. Gunmar wants the Order to start already on the wrong foot, to give us a starting disadvantage.”

“Order? What _Order_?” Otto spat risking to break his stoic guise.

“Assassins, Otto… _all of us_ will become assassins- not just a select few- hand picked, not just the ones who are good at stealth and speed, not just spies. A group of Assassins- which needs a bigger variety, a bigger cast of characters. And the thing is, it isn’t even that much different from what we’re used for the first place. Just…better organized, with more polish.” Stricklander turned his head, and looked at Otto, even had the courage to smile, “From coal to diamonds. We’ve gained a currency all of our own today, Otto.”

“At what price?” asked Otto, horrified. 

Stricklander’s face slacked, his grip tightened on the bells, “Less freedom for one…they’ll be able to keep a closer watch on us, all of us.” he made it sound akin to an irritating itch. Otto felt like vomiting.

“How- how did you walk away with all this?”

“I didn’t, I won’t be in charge. Gunmar refuses it. He needs to keep his leash short, after all. I will be able to shape the Order how I like, but I won’t be leading it. I’ll be more of…an overseer.”

The calm in Stricklander’s voice, and the growing cries in the distance made the matter all the more unsettling to Otto.

“W-what will happen to the ones not captured?”

“They’ll, go back to their original stations.” Stricklander explained.

“You believe that?”

“No…but it takes longer to make more changelings than it does to brainwash a troll. Besides, who else will set the tents and scout ahead during the day time?” Stricklander looked back at Otto and implored, “Please, let yourself be captured Otto.” he paused, and his face grew calm, with icy pleasantries, “and if I find out that you’ve told anyone about this conversation, I’ll kill you myself.”

At this moment a changeling ran up to Stricklander, grappling at the hem of his mantle, pleadingly. Asking more questions, begging for answers and what to do.

“What are they doing? What have we done? They took Krax, Stricklander!”

Stricklander’s arms hitched up, as he could feel eyes staring at him, watching him. A glance and he could see Thrüz and Gunmar watching. When did they get there?

 _Another test_ , thought Stricklander.

It took great effort to look down at the changeling grabbing him, his heart rate raced at how similar they looked to someone from Mercury’s Raiders. Stricklander listed their names one by one in his mind while forcing himself not to snarl and flinch away.

Instead, he smiled pleasantly and helped the half-breed up. They kept asking questions, Stricklander kept nodding, while the words _no favorites_ kept running in his head.

 _It won’t seem like loosing, someday._

“Vives annos.”** he said.

 

“W-what?”

In one swift motion, Stricklander shoved the bells in his hand down the changeling’s throat to gag on, stole the spear Otto was holding and smashed their head down into the snow with a finalizing crack.

With a pivot Stricklander twirled the spear around and smashed it into Otto’s side with such a force he morphed into his regular shape.

Hissing in the snow, Otto looked up at Stricklander, barring his teeth. At the distance Thrüz and Gunmar stood it was impossible to see the slightest raise and meaningful look Stricklander gave Otto.

After centuries of knowing each other, it was enough. Hurt and betrayed as Otto felt, it was enough to understand. He staggered to his feet and started to run as fast as he could, even morphing into a taller changeling to maneuver in the snow better.

Stricklander sidestepped, tossed the spear slightly to readjust his grip, took aim, and launched it.

It grazed Otto enough for him to yelp, and leave a bleeding purple trail that steamed in the snow. 

“Pity.” went Stricklander forcing a show of light heartedness, “I’ve always been better at daggers anyways.” the words themselves were hard to say, burning his throat like the ash stained the snow. All mythic heroes, as his familiar’s family taught him, had their great fatal flaw. If his own were to be favoritism, then shouldn’t he do all he could to root it out? How can one favor and not show

The landscape looked like a hell-scape, the growing fire casting warm orange glows to reflect and bounce off the snow. Like two dimensional reaching, scratching arms. Stricklander imagined them reaching for his ankles to pull him into the flames as well. Just as the ground is patient, so must he be patient, there can be no satisfaction, no contentment in this kind of life. When what was needed is achieved, he’ll happily go into the flames. The whistling pops from the groaning wood whispered his name, Stricklander’s full name.

 _If there were Gods, really- truly,_ he thought, _then Culśanś, or Janus, or whatever you’re called, help them…and me. We’ll need to be cleverer than Shigir if we are to endure this._

Gunmar called Stricklander to his side, subserviently he answered. Trying to focus more on the slightly muted crunch his feet made on the snow, than the glowing arms that scratched at his heels.

Because of his sidings against the Olympians, Aril (Atlas) was condemned to hold up the heavens for all eternity. Far better the sky than trapped in Tartarus, Eh?

 

O Ibex! O Ibex! Whose horns do you wear?  
To what end do you care?  
O Ibex! O Ibex! What crown do you covet?  
With a head that’s fit for only a bucket.

 

           Present Day, Janus Order

 

There was going to be a Council meeting, or so the rumors say. What bothered Otto was that he had no knowledge of this. How and why wasn’t he informed? He had hunches, seeing as the Council has been avoiding him, but he still had his right by sheer title to know.

All the same, he wandered the halls of the Janus Order, casually as can be, eavesdropping, getting caffeinated drinks, watching. The Order was buzzing like Otto had never seen before. The overhanging doom and fear for one’s life lessened. Such weakness. Gunmar would be most displeased. How foolish of all of them to think this could end happily!

He expected this from the changelings who popped out of the fetch post Killahead bridge, but the older ones too? Disgraceful.

It was with luck and gathered information that Otto was able to pinpoint where the Council meeting would take place, and he hovered by the door like some vulture waiting for an animal to die.

“Council Members!” he grinned, his fake tooth glinting in the light ever so slightly, “What fortune, I’ve been meaning to discuss a few matters with you.” he said pleasantly.

One of the members, a changeling from pre-Killahead named Enoch, gave a swift look at the others and stepped away from the group as the rest went inside room J7.

“And, ah, many pleasantries to you, Scaarbach.” said Enoch, speaking quicker than his usual slow cantor. Which wasn’t saying much, as Enoch was a patient half-breed, with a habit of being in a constant state of deadpan. “Ah know you have your opinions…noted as they are, tall orders as they be…”

“Well I’m sure _you_ -“

Enoch continued his train of thought, as if not hearing Otto speak, “One must consider the opportunities given, and use any grain the harvest brings.”

The way some changelings clung to what they were taught by their early years in humanity out of the fetch annoyed Otto to no end, but he understood the value of playing along with metaphors. “But if the harvest yields moldy bread-“

“Then use the mold instead.” went Enoch nodding like a wise turtle.

Otto could only irritably imagine the field day Enoch must have had when the humans discovered penicillin.

Meanwhile Enoch’s eyes glanced over Otto’s shoulders, widened, and shifted back smiling. Or as close as one could imagine Enoch smiling. “Ah’m glad we had our talk then. Ah must be going now. Pitter-patter.”

Otto furrowed his brows, gave too quick a look over his shoulder to register who was approaching and turned back to find Enoch entering room J7.

The down side to speaking in metaphors is that there’s always a high risk of saying many things, that all and all mean; nothing.

“Verdammt.” Otto muttered to one of the color samples tacked onto the bone white walls.

“Troubles, Otto?” asked Strickler pleasantly with his hands in his pockets.

Otto giggled, not at all surprised that it was Stricklander’s incoming presence that sent Enoch on his way, and stretched a toothy smile like oil in water, “Give or take, mein freund, nothing of great consequence.”

“I should hope so.” he smiled back. A knowing glint flashed in his green eyes, “Though I suppose nothing will stop you from listing them..”

“What more can be said that I haven’t already said? You are lost in some misguided idea of peace, blinded by your own wants and pursuits, and I, I see what must be.”

“A bold stance.” Strickler replied dryly, unoffended, “Ye old potato, _potato_ \- argument, is it?”

“This is far more serious than pronunciation, Stricklander.”

“The color samples?” he falsely guessed, in some mediocre attempt to avert the discussion.

“For one.” Otto answered despite of himself, “I’d sooner eat my own familiar than walk through halls painted-“ Otto lifted his spectacles at the color sample label, “Deep River Forest Viridian???- honestly now, these names, they get more ridiculous by the year-“

“You should have seen the Santa Fe Sea Side Shell Cerulean.”

Otto gave him a hard look, “You’re making that up.”

Strickler was in too good of a mood to debate, and shrugged, “Perhaps.”

The fact he wasn’t even fighting for it only encouraged Otto’s frustration, “ _Please_ tell me you’re joking.”

Strickler gave a snort, “That’s between me and the gods of H Depot now. Go see for yourself if you like.” Strickler then looked innocently upwards to the ceiling, “You know, I think Chakraborty mentioned liking blue.” he then glanced into Otto’s own blue eyes, subtly as an oversized rhino trying to use a cat-flap door.

“You’re as vile as the green you’re thinking of using for these walls, are you going to blend into the walls to avoid arguments too?”

Strickler shrugged again exceedingly amused, “Green has such a calming effect on the psyche.”

“A _false_ calm.” Otto snapped, segueing back to the argument at hand, “This is going to spell our doom-“

“Oh bother.” sighed Strickler.

“I mean it Stricklander.” Otto went on with a fierceness that was quickly checked by Strickler raising a brow. They were in a hallway after all, and no hallway, no mater how empty, is private.

The harshness in Strickler’s eyes ebbed away with another inward sigh. As tiring as these debates were getting, there’s always some value in hearing Otto worry. “Go on then.”

“What do you think is going to happen to us once Gunmar gets word of all this, hm? He’s bound to find out, he always ends up finding out.” Otto rubbed his hands together in mixed admiration and worry.

“Not if he has no means of communicating.”

“So we’re just going to round up every single fetch in existence?”

“We’ve already managed one scavenger hunt-“

“And the changelings still in the rookery? What is to stop him from exterminating every single one of them?”

“He wouldn’t dare, not if he still wants anything to do with the Pale Lady. Who, might I remind you, only backs him out of spite-”

“And our familiars? Hm? What of our familiars?”

Strickler became very still, an inhale turned into a dismissive laugh, “How would he reach them?”

“A Gunmar who is slowly growing desperate over the centuries, Stricklander? What _can’t_ he reach?”

Strickler closed his mouth, his hand floating upward to adjust collar of his turtle neck. Strickler considered the color sample on the wall. It suddenly looked very silly and out of place. Premature even. He frowned at it, then back to Otto who was doing his best not to look pleased with himself.

Slowly Strickler began to nod, the gears of his head turning with a glint in his eyes that worried Otto more so than reassure him.

He placed a heavy hand on Otto’s shoulder, “Thank you for that, Otto. I’ll keep that in mind moving forward.”

Otto giggled, his smile looking more like a grimace, “Moving forward? You don’t mean to tell me you’re not going to abandon this path? Despite-“

Strickler went on, returning to his pleasant nonchalance. “I’ve always respected your thoughts Otto,” He placed his hands back in his pockets. His words growing frostier with every syllable, “but I’ve been playing this game far. too. long. to give up on my course now. We’ll make do, whatever it takes, we’ll make do. You can mark me on that.” 

It felt like a nightmarish déjà vu that made Otto’s mouth taste like copper. He went to open his mouth with a counter argument, but only managed a giggle instead.

“Ta ta for now, decisions to be made.” smiled Strickler as he made his way to room J7.

Half way across the hall Strickler turned back to Otto and made a smiling gesture with his hands, which by all accounts was not intended to stem from somewhere malicious. But to Otto, all he could think of was a snowy winter long ago, growing fires, and a decision that changed the course of history for changelings.

At what cost?

Otto would be a fool not to admit the choice Stricklander made that night played very well in his favor in the long run. Perhaps he always knew it would play out that way. Perhaps not. He remembered trying to ask Stricklander one time, on a very drunken night, but only managed to get snarky replies, “A collection of crafty minds all organized in one spot? Shigir’s horns! Gunmar never knew what was growing under his feet.”

What Otto couldn’t ignore was the pain it took to get there.

How many more choices will be made out of his hands? How many more choices and compromises at the obliviousness and expense of others? Such was the way of the game, and now more than ever, (with the smell of smoke from the fire all those years ago fresh in his nose, anew) Otto wanted to be a player. To become what he admired.

Otto gave an oily smile back to Stricklander.

The head of Janus, two faces eternally looking in opposite directions. One to the sun, the other to the moon. One to the future the other to the past.

Stricklander turned to face the door to his meeting, giving a slight subconscious adjustment to his turtle neck collar, and Otto - unable to watch him go through a threshold he himself could not cross, yet again, and with a firm mental image of Stricklander walking towards a tent in the snow with those bells on his mangled horns- looked in the opposite direction.

To the sun, to the moon. To the future, to the past.

Otto walked through the white halls in search for a room he wouldn’t be disturbed in while he made a call. Backing into a room around the corner, phone to his ear, he gasped as he realized what room he was in. Otto ended his call after two rings. Eyes fixated on the mountain of fetches.

By all accounts the room should have been locked. Wasn’t it locked?

Within the same cavernous depths of the Janus Order an old turntable handle innocently stopped moving. If objects could grin ominously, this artifact sure did.

Otto took a step forward as if to take one, only for his shoe to move a small piece of inscribed rubble. Otto furrowed his brow and scooped it up.

It took everything not to drop it when he saw the handwriting. It fumbled and there was a bit of quick catching, but when the rubble was stable in his hands again his hands started to shake.

Biting the inside of his cheek and quickly pocketing the rubble, Otto exited the room quickly and searched for another more discrete location.

Behind him, the room, by an unseen eldritch force, re-locked itself.

“Krax? How are you?” Otto spoke fast, not letting the other a chance to put a word in, “I hope you’ve enjoyed your early retirement, hm? Life of a defector- no I don’t care to know where you are.” Otto squeezed the rubble in his pocket, giddy with new brimming excitement, “Good _good_ , cause I’m calling in in my favor, Krax. It’s time to collect.”

 

Half-Moon River

 

           The Night of the Museum Break In, Police Station

 

Jim was siting in a waiting cell with Toby who was doing his darnedest to cheer him up. It wasn’t working too well, not because Toby wasn’t funny - or his methods weren’t helpful, (in truth it helped add levity to the situation), but rather Jim didn’t feel like he deserved to be cheered up.

His mind already racing to the trouble this was probably causing for his mom, who Jim knew was working tonight. He dared not think what sort of heart attack this probably gave her.

Rubbing his eyes, Jim frowned into his palms with a soft groan.

“Do you think anyone is going to do the full bullpen? I can see Detective Scott being like a Peralta…what do you-?” Toby trailed off and frowned.

The silence caused Jim to drop his hands away in curiosity. What could stop his lighthearted rambling?

Jim’s face scrunched in curiosity, “Mr. Strickler?” and quickly sank with his dropping stomach.

Not only was he going to disappoint his mom tonight with a story he couldn’t fully explain, but his history teacher was going to find out too?

“What’s he doing here?” asked Toby suspiciously, “See any handcuffs on him?”

“What? _Please_ , Toby, this is Mr. _Strickler_ we’re talking about. He’s more likely to come in here to give free lectures on medieval jails than break the law.”

“Ah-huh.”

The teens craned their heads to the side, and if possible, tried to stretch their ears. Honing in and trying to drain out the casual bullpen hustle and bustle of an 11pm Arcadia night police station.

“He seems awfully close to that evil lady.” noticed Toby.

“Who’s posing as a museum curator? Gee why would a _history teacher_ know someone who he probably had to organize school field trips with?”

“Not loving the sass there Jimbo.”

Jim sighed and tiredly ran a hand through his hair, “Sorry Tobes…”

“Look I get it, you look up to the guy, but- I don’t know dude, something isn’t right.”

“It’s cool…a lot happened tonight, we’re on edge…anyone could be this changeling thing.”

Mr. Strickler, Miss Nomura, and Detective Scott were deep in a discussion. From where they were, Toby and Jim were able to get the minimum gist of the conversation. Strickler was called in as a favor to Jim’s mom to stay with the kids until she could get away from work. Seeing as Toby’s Nana wasn’t available, and most of Barbara’s friends being doctors as well.

Strickler glanced over at Jim from across the bullpen with an expression that could easily be interpreted as disappointment.

Jim shrunk, and wished the floor could open up.

“Someone’s coming.” said Toby, nudging Jim’s rib.

“Dude.”

“Alright you two, march on out.” said an officer while opening their holding cell.

They were directed to a small waiting area which comprised of four chairs next to a vending machine and a water fountain that held the scraped remains of past chewing gums.

Jim fixated his gaze on the ground while Toby theorized out loud how many of the gums belonged to criminals and if any of the gums were used in labs.

Jim and Toby lifted their heads towards the adults again when they heard Miss Nomura saying her farewells, her heeled shoes echoing with a new layer of menace as she walked.

Toby shuttered.

“Well now, it would seem we had quite a night.” said an approaching Mr. Strickler.

“Oh, hey Mr. S.” said Toby returning to sit next to Jim.

Jim looked up, but couldn’t meet his favorite teacher’s gaze. “Hi Mr. Strickler.” he managed to glumly mutter while gripping his chair.

With an inward sigh Strickler placed his hands in his pockets and looked over the youths, the unrepentant and repentant. Instead of lecturing, the teacher quietly sat himself a chair away from the pair of them, giving a respectable amount of space.

In the shared quiet, Jim would tentatively try and peak a look at his teacher. There was a need and want to explain himself to him that Jim didn’t entirely understand. When Jim did manage to fully turn his head, his teacher’s eyes patiently turned to him.

What followed wasn’t shared words, but rather Toby’s grumbling stomach loud enough to remind the three of them what time it was.

“I imagine such late night endeavors calls for a snack.” said Strickler.

His students gave an uneasy laugh, and Strickler managed a grin.

Getting up, Strickler walked over to the vending machine and fished for enough cash for three Yummy bars. One for Toby, one for Jim, and one for himself.

“Thanks Mr. Strickler.” said Jim upon being handed the bar.

“You’re welcome.”

“How…angry do you think my mom is?”

“About as furious as any parent would be, I’d imagine.”

Jim shrunk in his seat again and half heartedly picked at his Yummy bar wrapper.

“Will it go on our permanent record?” asked Toby.

“Well, seeing as Miss Nomura isn’t pressing charges, that is doubtful.” The last thing the Order needed upon the boy’s death was a paper trail.

“Oh! Well there’s that Jimbo.” Toby nudged helpfully.

Jim didn’t seem too moved by this news, in fact he looked more glum than before. Leaving the bar untouched beside him. “Mr. Strickler? I’m…I’m sorry this caused you any trouble.”

The changeling looked at the glum Trollhunter beside him. Despite everything telling the changeling this hero-teen is now his enemy, he couldn’t bring up the malice in his voice to bring down the moral of the already low feeling teen.

Strickler sighed once again, and with paternal ease patted Jim’s shoulder, “It’s alright. You’re young, and life, must feel like quite the adventure for you.”

“You have no idea.” sank Jim all the more.

Strickler gave another internal sigh, and retracted his hand. Meticulously he’d unwrap his own Yummy bar, and look thoughtfully to the ceiling.

Silence set in once more, but it didn’t last.

“Once upon a time,” said Strickler to no one in particular, but in such a way that both Jim and Toby leaned slightly in their chairs, “there was a Fox who fell into a well. It wasn’t a very deep well, but deep enough that the Fox couldn’t get back out again.

“Along came a Goat who felt rather parched. The Goat, thinking the Fox popped into the well for a drink, asked the Fox, ‘is the water any good?’

“The Fox, seeing his means of escape said, ‘Why yes, the finest! And there is enough to share between the both of us.’

“The Goat in all his thirst jumped into the well without a second thought. And in that moment, the Fox used the Goat’s back and jumped out of the well to freedom.

“When the Goat realized he was trapped in the well now, he called out to the Fox for help. But the Fox was already on his merry way.

‘Don’t you see,’ called back the Fox, “if you had anymore sense you’d have have been more cautious about finding a way to get out again before you jumped in.’ ”

Somewhere along the story Toby had lost interest, but Jim, bright and blue eyed, stared on at his teacher.

“I don’t think I get what you’re trying to say. Why couldn’t the fox look for a way to help the goat out?”

“It’s a cautionary tale, Young Atlas, next time be sure to look before you leap.”

Jim smiled at that, for the first time since entering the police station, and picked up his Yummy bar in a cheers motion, “Thanks Da-”

“Jim!” called Barbara cutting into Jim’s words.

Never would Walter Strickler know how close he was to hearing Jim accidentally call him dad. If the changeling had heard the teen, who knows how differently things might have played out.

 

           Present, Deena’s Flower Shop

 

Walter and Barbara ducked into the shop, Barbara already all smiles gripped Walter’s hand tighter in glee.

“Good afternoon.” called the shopkeeper, placing her iced matcha tea latte onto a coaster by the register. Her hawthorn eyes smiling at the pair of them, “And welcome back!” she said recognizing Walter Strickler.

“Ah, yes. This is where I purchased that bouquet.” he explained to Barbara, “Barbara, this is is Miss Deena. She owns the shop.”

“Charmed.” smiled Deena, her hawthorn eyes warm and smiling.

Barbara bit her lip in a moderate blush, and admired how the yellow bandana Deena wore made her eyes pop.

The shopkeeper clapped her hands together, and a few bits of earth and dirt crumbled onto the counter, “How can I help?”

The shopkeeper looked down, and rubbed her hands against her apron quickly before brushing the earth off her counter away.

“We were wondering if we could visit your greenhouse?” Barbara asked.

“A colleague of mine told me you have one that is open for visitation.” added Walter helpfully.

“Oh! Of course!” She smiled, picking up her latte before walking around the counter. She waved at them to follow. “There’s a back entrance as well, but only a few know about it.” winked Deena.

She lead them deeper into her shop, which was a little like going on a jungle expedition. Or so it reminded Walter, as he gently moved to avoid coming into contact with a frond.

The deeper they walked, it would seem, the thicker and closer together the plants would become.

Finally they reached a large arched glass door, with ivies that grew near the archway.

“Right this way you two. Feel free to stroll as long as you like, there’s even a few benches.”

Barbara and Walter squeezed their hands back and forth, while giving their thanks, and stepped into a high ceilinged greenhouse.

The heat hit Barbara faster than she had expected with a “Whew!” her glasses starting to fog in the temperature change.

Walter passed her a water bottle before removing his jacket and rolling up his own sleeves.

It felt almost like crossing over into some enchanted realm. With various flowering trees, and rose bushes, and hydrangeas of all colors.

After walking for a good part of an hour, they found a pleasant spot beside a growing jasmine to sit. Together Barbara would pull out some paper work she needed to read through while leaning against Walter, and he would do the same.

“Well now, isn’t this just the _picture_ of domestic mein Freund!” said a far too recognizable voice that made stones fall into Strickler’s stomach.

Putting down his paper, Walter Strickler looked up to see Otto’s looming, smiling face, his false tooth gleaming in the light, and a rather confused Barbara who’s eyes looked between the two changelings.

“Why Otto! You old bastard hound!” Jumped up Strickler in an act of someone who hadn’t seen their friend in years, as opposed to just yesterday. “What are you doing in the country?”

“Otto?” Repeated Barbara, “As in, _the_ Otto?”

Otto placed his hands on his hips and looked between them, “You even _spoke_ of me!” he said in a sinister kindness, looking flattered.

“Who doesn’t talk about old University days?” chimed in Strickler with a decisive and heavy clap on Otto’s shoulder. “It was only in passing, don’t start tooting your own horn too much now.”

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of it.” He grinned, “And who might this schön creature be? Don’t be rude Stricklan-” Otto was cut off by another firm clap on his shoulder given by Strickler.

“You’re so right. This,” Walter presented his hand in reverence, “is Dr. Barbara Lake.”

“Lake?” repeated Otto eyeing Strickler, before sliding his eyes back to the good doctor, “A pleasure to meet you, my dear.”

“And to finally meet you.”

“Yes so good to see you, we really should catch up, when were you going?”

“Oh, soon enough.” nodded Otto. “I’m just in town for a short expo meeting. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear some of my findings, ja?”

Strickler’s smile stretched in a calculated and humorless way. “Whatever the findings may be, I hope they’re worth the trouble.”

“Hmm perhaps, old freund.”

“Might I have a quick word?”

“Whatever for? Surely what can be said, can be heard by _all_ ears.”

“I actually have to take this.” pipped up Barbara fishing for her ringing phone, “Excuse me, it’s the hospital.”

Otto and Strickler nodded an, _of course_. Watching Barbara walk out of sight. Otto was the first to speak, “How _fortunate_.”

“Now you listen very carefully Scaarbach-“

“I won’t say anything, Stricklander.” Otto cut in briskly his eyes glowing, “But consider this my _final_ helpful warning. I’ve been your right-hand man since the beginning, you said yourself you value my thoughts-respect them. The young changelings think they found some new Shigir hero, following you like some hellenistic philosopher.” Otto turned and spat into the ground, “When they should be ashamed. The Green Knight take them. They’ll tear you to shreds the first instant they they think you can’t keep your word. Have you forgotten where impures stand in this world? Trollmarket will crush us the second we go too far.”

“Otto, they barely have the troll power-“

“Cease this madness, kill the Lake child before all the good you’ve done gets swept away. Listen to my warning Stricklander; in a world with Gunmar, there are no happy endings, to think otherwise is the dreams of whelps. Do you want the deaths of those before us, the deaths of Mercury’s Raider’s, to be in vain?” Otto leaned in with a cold look, “Do you still remember all their names?”

Stricklander stared back at Otto in silence. Their eyes locked in a staring contest which Otto willingly lost. Turning to leave, he placed his hand in his pocket, and thumbed the name Barbara Lake into the rubble.

After a bit of distance Otto started softly humming the Humbling tune from long ago, “O Ibex! O Ibex! Whose horns do you wear~?”

When Barbara returned, she found Walter Strickler sitting patiently with his legs crossed looking ready to leave. He had that gaze again, that far off unexplainable gaze that made the principal look miles and miles away.

“Where’d Otto go?”

Strickler snapped his head toward her at the sound of the other changeling’s name. It suddenly felt very wrong for her to know such a name. Out of place, like a worldly dissonance that screamed, _these two worlds should never collide_.

“I’m sorry.” said Strickler with a heaviness she didn’t understand. Before Barbara could ask more Strickler cleared his throat and said, “He had a meeting to get to, and I ah, must admit, the heat might be getting to me.”

 

         The Lake Household, That Night

 

Watching a movie was a welcomed distraction. He could tell his mood shift was noticed by Barbara, and didn’t have the heart or energy to invent anything that would properly sway her curiosity.

And since Barbara didn’t want to watch anything hospital/doctor related, and Walter didn’t want to watch anything history/war related, they settled for the future, space, and Galaxy Quest.

Not that they managed to watch it to the end.

Walter Strickler was the first to wake up. He woke with a mild startled snarl through his nose. It took a few moments to collect himself again, and remind himself he wasn’t under the earth. Not yet.

Barbara had fallen asleep on him, her head resting in the space of his chest and shoulder. She grumbled something about toothpaste, and continued to drool. Walter smiled down, and moved a bit of hair from her face.

The dvd menu of Galaxy Quest was playing on repeat on the television, with a weary sigh he turned off with the remote.

A blue glow still reflected off of the screen, though this time from another light source.

“Ah, Young Atlas-”

“Get out.”

Strickler went to say something, but with the weight of the day in his mind, and Barbara gently resting against him, he merely accepted the command. “Yes, I-I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Understatement of the year.”

A ghost of a smile haunted Walter’s gaunt face. “‘Suppose you’re right.” he said as he went to gingerly re-adjust himself and Barbara.

Walter heard Jim’s grip tighten on Daylight.

“Either you can help me, or we can leave your mother here and risk her getting a stiff neck in the morning.”

Jim contemplated the options, and relented with Daylight vanishing.

Walter rubbed his sleepy face, shook his head, and returned to arranging himself in a position better suited for cradling Barbara to bed. He looked down with reverent affection as the good doctor nestled her head into his chest.

“You…you really care about her, don’t you?” asked Jim in the quiet darkness of his house.

The two enemies shared a grave look.

“Would confirming that make any of this easier?” Walter asked, throat coarse with sleep.

Jim appraised his traitorous ex-teacher, his own expression difficult to read.

“I’ll make sure nothing is on the floor.” said Jim, picking up a half empty laundry basket as he went.

Walter Strickler quietly followed behind.

He placed Barbara into her bed, softly, gently, and moved to kiss her when Jim interrupted the action with a stern throat clearing. The changeling smiled despite himself, and thumbed Barbara’s hand fondly instead.

There was a copy of Watership Down on her bedside table.

Jim, arms crossed, waited by the door, and motioned for Strickler to move ahead of him down the stairs.

He watched from the stairs as Walter Strickler collected his jacket and things.

“Strickler, wait.” he said to his own surprise.

The changeling turned from the door, in equal surprise.

“What was that ordeal with the lady Angor Rot was fighting?”

Strickler rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb, marveling at how long ago that already felt. He had no obligation to answer the Trollhunter. And yet, in the dark quiet of the Lake household, it felt as though a shrouded truce had befallen on them.

“That, Jim, is a very long story…the important thing, I’m sure you worried about, is she isn’t dead.”

Jim furrowed his brows, and nodded. He wasn’t too happy with the answer, but it’d do, especially with what he next wanted to know about.

“Why did you send that message about Shigir? Why go through all that trouble?”

“Well you know about Shigir now, don’t you?”

“…yes.”

“Did you before?”

“…no.” went Jim, not trusting the obviousness of his answers.

“Tell me, Trollhunter, what sort of things did you learn about Shigir?”

“He’s a, changeling hero…there are stories about them, but they’re not written down anywhere…not even NotEnrique knew about it too well.”

“I see..” said the changeling solemnly.

“Draal did, and Aargh…but Draal remembered an actual title.”

“What title might that be?”

“Shigir and the Story of Ohou.”

“Oh.”

“That’s what I said.”

Strickler shook his head, “As in I was surprised. I am surprised.” Jim tilted his head curiously. “Out of all the tales and stories…well, Shigir has many, many stories about many things - but very few stories about love.” he intently looked towards the basement door, on the off chance he might be overheard. “He should feel lucky to have heard it.”

Jim looked down at his shoes for a while thoughtfully, then asked, “The Shigir stories, are they - are they true? Real?”

“Well someone said them, and someone believed them, and here we are.” Jim stared perplexed and unsatisfied with Strickler’s response. “There are changelings who would bet their livelihoods on Shigir being real, and others well - use it as small comforts during dark and dangerous times.”

“Well what do you think?” Jim innocently asked.

“Me?” he blinked. Strickler gave a moment of pause, thumbing his lapel. “Shigir, like for many others, was a great comfort - but he’s no different than Heracles or Uthuze. A hero in his own story.”

Jim nodded at this, but the crease in his forehead remained.

“One last thing, before I go, if I may..” went Strickler politely. Jim placed his hands in his pockets and shrugged seeing no harm in it. “How much of troll history are you learning, Young Atlas?”

“Enough.” Jim sniffed defensively, his chin raised.

This bout of childish display brought on a chuckle in the changeling. “Alright, and tell me, are you still applying what I taught you in reading historical documents?”

Jim’s chin lowered slightly. “Documents?”

“What every historian should keep in mind. You remember them, I’m sure. The questions one must ask themselves.”

Jim shifted his weight from one foot to the next, and slowly said, “Who was in charge when it was written? When was it written? What was it written about? Is the person it is written about still alive or dead at the time it is written? What was the occupation of the author?”

Walter Strickler nodded, feeling deeply proud.

“Do you keep these questions in mind when learning troll history?” he asked patiently.

“Ah, um..” Jim felt rather embarrassed, unsure.

“If such questions can be useful to learning human history, why should troll history be any different?”

“I- uh…guess you’re right.”

The changeling smiled at his former pupil and placed a hand on the doorknob, “Changelings have a proverb that sums up all those questions rather neatly. Keeping in mind, we’re meant to be assassins; ‘Always ask the same question twice; before and after the kill.’”

“Why are you telling me all this? Why are you telling me about Shigir, and, and everything?”

They paused at the sound of movement upstairs.

Strickler sighed, “I should go.” he paused, the deeds of tomorrow looming over him, “And good luck, Young Atlas.”

Strickler closed the door on the perplexed youth, leaving the Lake household.

As the changeling walked on, chest heavy feeling solemn, the words of a famous Vulcan came to mind.

_The Needs of the Many Outweigh the Needs of the Few._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *(Gichi-Gami - the Ojibwa peoples name for lake superior, meaning: great sea ) 
> 
> **( Vives annos - Live for years)


	9. A Horse Named Cold Air / Corner of the Sky / Etude Op.25 No. 11 / No Choir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sade:  
> Compassion, Marat, is the property of the privileged classes ... No no, Marat, no small emotions, please. Your feelings were never petty. For you, just as for me, only the most extreme actions matter.
> 
> Marat:  
> If I am extreme, I am not extreme in the same way as you. Against Nature's silence, I use action. In the vast indifference, I invent a meaning. I don't watch unmoved, I intervene. And I say, 'this and this are wrong'. And I work to alter them, and to improve them! Because the important -
> 
> [A player interrupts with bell. Marat stops them]
> 
> Marat Cont'd:  
> the important thing is to pull yourself up, by your own hair. To turn yourself inside out. And see the whole world with fresh, eyes.
> 
> \- The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade, by Peter Weiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wait!!  
> Here is a soft reminder that this fic is rated M for Mature, as things do get a bit heavy this chapter. 
> 
> For anyone interested in watching the full scene from the summary (which I highly suggest because, oof, some damn good acting, here is the link: https://youtu.be/hLC9rShGXt0
> 
> And now, without further ado! The chapter!

 

ACT I  
[Continued]

A Horse Named Cold Air

 

Strickler left the Lake Household, parked his car, and immediately decided on a late night walk. He headed towards Arcadia’s statue, towards the museum, and hopefully a clearer mind. The wind brought with it a sweet breeze, and collided with a dryer darker gale filled with dust, desert dirt, and pixies.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

 

           Angor Rot and the Desert

 

It’s sometimes easy to forget how cold the desert gets at night.

Somewhere, someone is driving through Arizona at night. The road long, stretching outwards seemingly forever. Dust picking up mixed with snow, yes, snow.

Somewhere a troll tricked out of his soul walks on through the cold sand. May it be the right direction. May the sun take its time.

But like all moment when one wishes time to march slower, the march is constant, the speed; at the same tempo it has always been, it always will be.

When the sun did did inevitably rise, fortune smiled on poor Angor, and fortune continued to shine one cactus at a time.

Angor Rot was a patient troll. Patience is a golden commodity among hunters. And Angor was a good hunter, a damn good hunter.

Despite this, there was something insufferable about being trapped at the mercy of a shadow, a slow moving shadow at that.

“Perhaps I have grown too accustomed to using the staff.” Anger thought aloud to a passing lizard. Its movements slow, meandering, as its belly dragged on the hot earth.

Angor let out a low growl. Not even this changed the humor of the passing lizard.

It remained indifferent.

Indifferent to the trapped troll, indifferent to the troll’s tragic plight, indifferent to the desert climate. Its mind only on the next meal, and water.

For a moment Angor considered the ironic duality between himself and the lizard.

The creature, a cold blooded thing thriving in the glaring unrelenting heat of the sun.

Himself, equally cold, almost unfeeling with a painful void in his core, incapable of touching any such life giving light, lest it’d be his end.

Angor watched it until it was out of his line of sight, and returned to his thoughts, and the itching unrest of wanting to move.

Never before in his life (or un-life), did Angor Rot think he’d be jealous of a tumbleweed.

On the horizon the line between earth and sky shimmied in the glaring heat. It was mesmerizing. So much so, that he lost track of time staring, and started to wonder why it felt like his leg was on fire.

With a snarl Angor Rot repositioned himself better in the moved shadow.

There was once a moment when he allowed himself to be a perch for a vulture. It was a kind company.

However, it was the evenings Angor enjoyed the most. When the cactus shadows would stretch, long reaching into a growing darkness.

How even the inhabitants of the desert waited for the sun to pass as he did. Waiting, vibrating with life, just out of sight. Coming to life under the night. 

In those moments he’d think of the Pale Lady. In the fire of the setting sun, filled with more colors than there used to be in the sky, hot pinks and deep reds.

“Pollution.” explained the changeling, Stricklander once.

In those toxic colors Angor would think of the village he was desperate to save. How it burned under Gunmar’s attack. The screams of his loved ones. It followed and haunted the troll, much like the void within him.

Desperation.

What a thing.

It was desperation that drove him to the Pale Lady, to Argante, desperation that drove him to hunt down and slay all Trollhunters, and it is desperation that drives him to bend to the will of the one who wears the Inferna Copula.

“My champion.” whispered the sands as he kept going. “My darling champion.”

Angor Rot hissed, but couldn’t bring himself to kick the sand. Perhaps it was his imagination. Perhaps, it was dehydration. Or maybe the repercussion of being parted from the Skathe-Hrün.

“You are my valiant knight. Keep strong, you will have your reward.”

 _Yes, a sort of withdrawal_ , thought Angor Rot.

He walked on, feeling no difference in the cold he felt, and the cold night air.

Clutching the Killstone in his hand with vengeful desperate eyes. Anger Rot understood what desperation can do to a troll. Sometimes seeing it in the Trollhunters he’d hunted. Bartering for one more night of life.

He saw it more than anything, in the occasional changelings he had encountered. There didn’t seem to be as many then.

It was a savage desperation he saw in them, like cackling starving jackals over the same scrap of meat. There was little honor among them, Angor would notice.

It is known that they are stolen troll whelps. Whelps that were mutated in a way no scholar has ever been able to write down. Even in Angor’s own learned studies of the occult, and back and forth with Argante- the makings of changelings remained a mystery.

Not that he looked too deeply into such things. It wasn’t part of his duty, not part of Argante’s plan. Learning more about changelings wouldn’t get him closer to getting his soul back.

Though unlike other trolls Angor Rot could see the respectful danger in creations of Argante’s design. This reason alone kept Angor from calling them impure. He had seen a changeling’s cold revenge on the battlefield once.

It was a changeling who tricked Angor from killing a Trollhunter once, stealing his kill. He’ll make sure it won’t happen again.

 _Was their will as free as it seemed?_ Angor Rot would wonder while walking, trying to ignore the whispers in the sands. _Were they, too, soulless as he?_ After all, from what he’s seen, when a changeling dies, they either burst to dust, or decompose as fleshbags do. _They have no glory to return to stone, to return to the earth and rocks and mountains…Do they?_

These thoughts followed Angor Rot until morning, where he found a small cavern to take shelter in for the day.

From what Angor Rot could tell, the cavern didn’t lead anywhere. There was some disturbance to the walls, however the untrained eye would simply see it as an old collapse. Angor Rot pressed his hand to the wall, feeling the grooves on the sediment remains. As if sharp blades pierced into the wall. 

What caused the collapse and why happened long ago.

He ended up slumping to the ground with a low growl. The tiredness he had been fighting off seizing him. It was as if he realized he had been walking with weights this whole time while overdoing it with glug.

Angor sighed, and continued slumping, until he was laying down.

With the resigning thought the sun couldn’t reach him from within the small cavern, and with the lull of watching the sky brighten in different shades, Angor drifted off to the first true sleep he’s had in days.

It was around noon that Angor began to dream. When the sun had reached the zenith in its coursing arch over the desert. Even in the shade, the beating sun against the roof of the cavern heated a warmth into the earth. It had the same effect as pre-heating an oven with its door open.

The dream itself was vague, a jumble of subconscious concerns, that became tinted, contorted even.

_Angor Rot was walking through the forrest again. In truth he should be running, as his village was burning behind him, but his body compelled and willed himself to walk._

_Walk even though your village is burning._

_Walk even though ash collects on your horns and lungs._

_Walk as the smoke burns your nostrils._

_“Great hunter! May the moon and stars guide you!” called the voice of Angor’s older sister._

_“Great priestess! May the moon and stars guide you!” he replied._

_“What takes you on this journey?”_

_“Dear sister, great priestess, I have failed our village. I have helped and done all I can to evacuate it, but our village is lost.”_

_“Where am I?” asked his older sister._

_“I last saw you morning your lover, sister. You charged at the Gumm-Gumms, and made barriers as long as you could.”_

_“Am I dead?”_

_“I…I do not know, are you?”_

_Silence followed._

_As Angor walked on through the forest he started to hear the faint jaunt of jolly music. His trail was in the same direction of the music, not that he understood the music’s 20’s rag time style, not more than finding that the source of the music was a lonely phonograph on a metal table. It turned on its own, and there was a faint glow to it._

_On the rim of the phonograph’s pavillon was a cluster of tiny yellow argante butterflies, that glowed and gave off a light seemingly from within._

_When the phonograph’s music was far behind him, Angor Rot heard his sister once again, “You must go do what I can not.”_

_“Yes priestess, yes I know.”_

_“Do you remember the way? The way I told you? Taught you? Can you speak the words?”_

_There was another phonograph, alone in the woods. Its music found Angor before he saw the phonograph. This time, the music was more along the lines of a 50’s cocktail background music._

_“I remember, dear sister.”_

_“I’m glad…I’m sorry.”_

_This time the yellow butterflies followed Angor, as if embracing him in a yellow cloud._

_“You’ve been very brave, great hunter. I’m sorry I must ask you to be brave for a little while longer.”_

_“If it were not you, it was would have been I. I do not fear what is to come.”_

_Angor Rot reached the bank of the lake. The butterflies danced just above the surface, disturbing the moon’s reflection on the water._

_And for a moment, Angor Rot didn’t feel alone. He felt as though his sister was with him, had walked with him all the way here. Was right behind him, just out of sight. But the hunter didn’t dare turn around, not even when he felt a breath on his back._

_“You should.” came his sister’s voice for the last time, and she was gone._

_What took her place Angor Rot would never know. It growled, and each step groaned as if 2,000 year old trees were being uprooted with every step._

_With but an exhale from what could have been nostrils, Angor Rot was sent flying across the lake. He flew at such a speed the good hunter feared how he’d land or stop. Jetting across the lake and into the mouth of the cave that seemed to go on forever and ever._

_The wind whistled past Angor Rot’s ears in moans. The air grew clammier and colder._

_Low hanging cobwebs would break at his passing. At least, Angor Rot hoped they were cobwebs, but something in the pit of his stomach told him otherwise._

_He continued his trajectory for so long Angor Rot started to think perhaps he wasn’t being sent horizontally anymore, but was actually falling down. Down into a deep dark pit where up and down lost sense._

_That is, until the walls of the cave began to glow. Passing a collection of butterflies who gave off a pale yellow light, pulsing like a heartbeat. Each pulse blinding, and with every return to the dark tones of the cave an image would linger over his eyes._

_One was that of his older sister teaching him the arcane arts of their village. The sound of chimes, and rattling bird bones followed._

_The other of an outreaching clawed hand. From the shadows a booming voice spoke with cackling irony,_

_NOW HUNTER WILL BE HUNTED! GO HUNT THE HUNTER, HUNTER. AND EVERY HUNTER THAT FOLLOWS. YES, THAT WILL TEACH HIM. THROW A JUICY WRENCH IN HIS PLANS AS YOU CONTROL DAYLIGHT._

_This image lingered longer, and left with the cry of a distant peacock, and echoing thunder._

_The third was more movie-esqe. Everything tinted with a tan yellow like sheen. It was a juvenile fleshbag girl, perhaps younger looking than the current Trollhunter. She was trying to shake someone, her eyes puffy with fear, determination, and tears. She spoke in a language Angor Rot didn’t understand. What the hunter did understand from context clues, was that whoever this Jiji* was needed to pull themselves together._

_The forth image was more interactive. Angor Rot flew through the disembodied spirits of every Trollhunter he killed. Each groaning louder with every passing. Leaving a deeper more sickening void within. Parts of himself falling away in the process. More bird bones followed, falling away from him as if bones too were a part of him._

_Angor Rot grew nauseous in his own dream, and started to realize this_ _was_ _a dream._

_The fifth and final image would later haunt Angor Rot till his end. For it wasn’t an image. The hunter reached the end of the tunnel and therein waiting was a large yellow butterfly with black and green markings all along its wings._

_The markings moved on their own, until it formed two eyes staring back at Angor Rot. He yelled, and fell through the right eye._

With a start, and still feeling as though he had fallen a great distance, Angor Rot awoke alone in the cavern again. He panted where he lay and sighed turning his head away from the mouth of the cavern, and the view of the sky draping in colors of the setting sun.

From the ground Angor Rot saw more markings on the walls. It appeared to have been carved into the wall a long time ago, in characters he didn’t understand, and at an angle where unless he was laying on his back just where he was he probably would have never seen it.

Something poked at the hunter’s curiosity, and the mysterious writing was a welcomed distraction. Taking his dagger Angor inscribed words and sigils into the blade, licked it, and pushed the blade into the wall.

The characters glowed, and rearranged themselves into trollish.

Anticlimactically, all it said was; Getting water.

Angor Rot stared at the words, then re-examined the cavern within with a feeling that something had happened in this cavern. _But whatever it was, was lost to the past, and the dead memories it belonged to_ , thought Angor.

With that he lifted himself up, and continued on his way into the desert.

When it came time to seek shelter again, there was nothing for miles. He could turn back, but it would be risky.

The only plausible cactus Angor Rot found was a small squat thing with dried up flowers that wouldn’t cover hum even if he curled up beside it.

“Perhaps the desert will be my end.” He said to the shadows of circling vultures.

Angor Rot looked at the Killstone gripped it tight, and chucked it, “The desert take this. I…I return to..” he wasn’t sure what. The Killstone glinted in its arch like a miniature star. Angor Rot didn’t watch more than this, and resigned himself to squat beside the cactus and close his eyes.

He didn’t hear the millstone hitting the ground, instead there was a flapping of wings. The sound of vultures being disturbed in their gliding, giving a disgruntled cry.

Angor looked up to see it was a raven that disturbed the vultures’s flight pattern, and in its beak glinting away, was the Killstone.

“Bushigal.”

Angor Rot watched how the raven glided, making figure eights above him. With a grumble the hunter readjusted himself to squint into the horizon.

Up ahead, with a cloud of dirt following it heading in Angor Rot’s direction, was a mimosa yellow, (or rather tan considering the dust and sand) mini cooper.

More curses followed.

When the cloud of dirt settled around the cooper, Gisele popped out of the sun roof with a large floppy straw hat. It had fake sunflowers and leaves woven into it. On her smiling lips, lined with dark blue lipstick, was a cigarette.

Angor Rot stared at his reflection in her blue tinted sunglasses, and after taking a thoughtful drag of her cigarette the thief slid the sunglasses down her nose.

She considered the troll, who risked being burned by the sun with every passing minute.

“Buongiorno caro, laying on the job?” Giselle exhaled, smoke jetting outward between her teeth. She stretched her hand out, and, as if on cue, Aaron the raven dropped the Killstone into her open palm. “Not goooood.” Giselle singsonged.

The thief’s cigarette bobbed between one corner of her mouth and the other while she considered the Killstone, “Huh. It’s smaller than I thought it would be.”

“What do you want, witch?”

Giselle reached into her cooper and pulled up a large golf umbrella from within.

“For you to get your shit together, dearie.” she tossed the umbrella his way. “You’re not dying yet, Angor Rot - not out _here_ , anyways.”

The umbrella fell short and slightly out of his reach. The troll stared at her unimpressed. His expression remaining aloof while Giselle pulled herself out from the sunroof.

It was like watching smoke billow upwards out of a chimney. In a very literal sense.

Giselle’s movements would become exceedingly otherworldly, her skin gossamer like, until her form and shape billowed like her own cigarette smoke. 

“You foresee my death, witch?”

“ _Foresee_ isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Then explain-“

“Everyone dies eventually, Angor. “ she stated with the same obviousness of someone saying, ‘of course water is wet’. The thief slid off of the car and glided over, smelling like cinders and bonfire. The trailing smoke of her cigarette mixed with the locks of her billowy white hair. Angor Rot hated it.

“It was a joke.” the thief lied.

“I already serve one Pale Lady, witch. I don’t intend to serve another.”

By then the rest of Giselle’s smokey form caught up to the thief, and she returned to looking like a pale human once more.

“Oh, caro, that’s…well, _very_ flattering, but I wasn’t interest.” the raven fluttered about Giselle as if trying to settle on her shoulder, but her hat was too floppy and in the way. “The terms of our deal are already complete.” the raven continued to hover about despite the thief’s waving hands. “You spared me - ugh just take it!” Giselle interrupted herself, chucking the glinting Killstone into the air for the corvid to play with.

“Where was I? Oh _yes_ , you spared me, and I supplied you the pixies.” the thief opened the umbrella with a satisfying fwump sound, shading Angor Rot before offering the handle to him.

“Then why are you doing this?” Angor asked, taking the handle.

“Please don’t take it too personally to heart. It was chance I was passing through.” Giselle considered how wise it would be to explain further.

They shared a calculating look.

Deciding, Giselle turned effortlessly into a triple pirouette, extending her leg into a back arabesque, her standing leg bending to a stop, a hand extended to behind Angor. “I saw you, well Aaron saw the Killstone,” the thief lowered her back leg and idly pas de bourée-d from one leg to the other, “and holistic providential sagacity told me that; if I don’t offer a hand…” she turned once more under herself, stopped, her heels returning to the earth, and gestured her hands to mime the ballet sign of death before the troll, “you wouldn’t make it back to Arcadia.”

“This is the same holistic providence that told you I ought to have pixies?” Angor asked, though it didn’t sound like a question.

“Precisely!” she smiled cheerily. “Though really, wouldn’t you love to have a juicy time using them?”

“What happens when I use them?” Angor asked, cutting to the chase. Distrusting of the specificity in her tone. Like being privy to one’s own foreshadowing.

She shrugged, “Anything.” and exhaled smoke skyward, watching the billows dance with the wind currents. “Anything.”

An idea slowly formed in the mind of Angor Rot, it billowed vaguely like the thief’s cigarette smoke, but formed more solid in time.

Meanwhile the thief whistled and waved and tried to get the attention of her corvid companion that was continuing to play with the Killstone. Dropping it from a great distance and trying to catch it before it’d hit the ground.

“Do you want to stay a bird forever? Get over here you- Ahimè!” she cursed all the way back to the mini cooper, pulled out a small leather pouch, and poured precious jewels and coins into her palm, making sure the light would catch the riches and catch the bird’s attention as well.

In one swift movement the thief poured the jewels back into the pouch and snatched the Killstone from the raven’s beak. “Lo preso!” **

The bird fluttered onto the mini cooper, perching on the hood. Its head cocking this way and that giving an expressionless sideways stare. Eyeing Giselle with its right eye before, as if out of spite, it relieved itself on the hood of the car.

“Charming.” Giselle clicked her tongue and walked back over to Angor Rot. “I’d toss it your way, but my friend is being _childish_ today.”

“The Killstone.”

“Can’t go without your prop.”

“You’re, giving it back?”

“You ask questions, but they’re never _really_ questions, are they?”

Angor stared back in silence, and Giselle marveled how hard headed trolls could be.

“I, _observe_.”

“Yes, well, you can observe me leaving now.” She looked as if about to pat Angor Rot on his way, but thought better of it. “Addio, caro, consider this like me giving you a 10 minute call time so you won’t miss your cue.”

Angor started walking without saying another word. 

“You know!” she called with an amused smile, “It’s customary to answer back, ‘thank you 10’ so I know you _heard_ me!”

Angor’s silence as he continued walking towards Arcadia despite the coming day was filled with her chiming laughter.

Giselle shook her head, flicked her finished cigarette away, and took off, mini cooper raven and all toward the opposite direction.

Angor Rot looked back if only once to see the car and its dust cloud turn into a dot on the shimmering horizon, and disappear.

 

          Thank You 10

 

The pixie entered into Walter Strickler’s ear with no warning, and no fanfare. The only trace of suspicion it gave the changeling was similar to someone whispering an unintelligible secret in passing. It certainly tickled.

“ _Impure_.” came an all too familiar voice, in an all too familiar tone. 

Pulling his finger out of his ear, it almost felt, impossible. Yet the hairs on the back of Strickler’s neck bristled, and his neck felt very much in danger of being strangled.

With an about-face like turn, Strickler turned toward the source of the laughter he started to hear. His stance widening.

“Who-??” Strickler knew who, every bit of him knew. He cursed how his voice trembled slightly when he saw the start of Bular’s horns coming out from behind the Arcadia statue. “It…it _can’t_ be.”

 _It_ _can_ _be_ , said a little giggling voice inside.

“Bular?” the changeling’s mind whirled, thinking of excuses, of reasons of not having found Gunmar’s son faster, sooner. Strickler’s only pathetic explanation being, “I thought you were dead.”

“I live.” went the troll Gumm-Gumm, aghast to believe any other outcome was possible. Bular growled through his bared teeth, “Only to find you’ve left my father to _rot_ in the _Darklands_?”

Fear hitched higher up Strickler’s throat. He could feel his eyes starting to glaze, wanting to glaze. As if his feet were rooted to the ground, seized by an on coming bout of Welling.

Bular was coming closer, and if Strickler didn’t start moving, Bular’s mouth would be closer too. The changeling pinched himself, and started backing away.

“You _dare_ to conspire to steal _my father’s throne_?!”

It was as if the cement was turning into mud, sticking to his shoes, making it harder for Strickler to back up fast enough.

The changeling fell backwards, into the cement that felt more and more like mud, “No, I would never betray..” he raised his hand ignoring the glow from the Inferna Copula while visibly shaking. If Strickler had any more wits about him he would have noticed the glow meant Angor Rot was nearby.

Oddly it was Bular’s voice addressing the ring that pulled Strickler from Welling, “The Inferna Copula? You think Angor Rot will bring your _reign_?” Bular laughed a deep bellied laugh. A mocking sort of laugh so loud even the stars was sure to hear it.

It took Strickler by surprise, seeing it as a good moment as any to drag himself backwards, gaining any sort of distance between himself and Gunmar’s dreaded son.

It was like dragging himself through mud. Just when the changeling started to question why cement would feel like mud, Bular, with all his weight, barreled his fist to the ground in such a way and speed they through should have cracked the cement. But Strickler was too close to Bular’s mouth, smelling that awful cannibalistic breath to notice.

“Abandon the ring _now_ , before I _feast_ on your _corpse_ and _floss_ with your _intestines_.” As Bular talked blood both human and changeling would dribble past Bular’s underbite. A rumble would grow with every movement forward the troll took. 

It didn’t make sense that Bular was here, it didn’t make sense that with every punch into the mud it sounded as though Bular punched pavement, and yet in the changeling’s human form Strickler felt that all too familiar phantom ache of his horns.

The skulls that hung about Bular’s bet began to jingle and chatter like distorted bells. Their hollow eyes staring into the changeling, indifferent, and amused.

“Bular! Please! I’d never-!” started Strickler pathetically.

“Oh you would! You _did_!” rattled a skull on Bular’s belt.

“O Ibex! O Ibex! Who’s horns do you wear~?!” the skulls would chatter and sing

“How many bones do you stand on, Stricklander, to be where you are?” went another skull.

“Yes! Yes! How many?!” chorused in the skulls.

“Was the Janus Order ever necessary?”

“A selfish attempt to maintain power at Gunmar’s side!”

“Can you name them all? Count them all? The _bones_ , Stricklander.”

“Jiji! How could you?!”

“You will bring about our end, mein freund!”

“You are _how_ old? Reduced to killing babes.” A skull motioned to spit, remarkably it managed to spit dried brown blood onto Strickler’s face.

“Pound for pound!”

“Flesh for flesh!”

“The changelings troop into the ground!”

“Spin’t ‘round n there’s no sound left!”

“O Ibex! O Ibex! What crown do you covet~?” they’d chorus again.

The earth felt like it was shaking now, and the changeling staggered between grappling onto mud and avoiding the snaps of Bular’s salivating mouth.

“You try to not call yourself Stricklander, but you are!”

“And you aren’t.”

The skulls and Bular would cackle and cheer, “Impure! Impure!”

“To serve Gunmar is to serve the Pale Lady.” rattled another skull.

“Do you wonder how Bular found you?” jingled another skull.

Bular punched his fist so close to Strickler, it trapped him, the saliva dripping from his mouth trailed as the troll leaned forward with a snarl, “Do you wonder?” he repeated, “The Pale Lady whispered your True Name, Impure, whispered it to the Green Knight, to Br-“

“No!” Stricklander barely managed to gasp, desperate to interrupt Bular before he could call the Green Knight’s name. Tugging at an old superstition. Unable to wipe the dripping saliva off of himself, seized to stillness by Welling.

“Yes, Impure,” rumbled Bular, “the Green Knight came to me, and when I’m done, _you_ must answer the call.” ***

“N-no Bular! Please!”

“ _Give me the ring_!”

Stricklander checked inside his coat pocket for the pouch Giselle had given him, to see if he could use it in such a dark time. But all he found instead were worms, roots from a hangman’s tree, and blood.

“Oh, boy.” said a teen’s voice, sounding ever so distant.

“How dare someone like you manage to live for so long!”

“A changeling can have only so many close calls.”

“Even cats run out of lives.”  
“Only Shigir can out-trick Death.”

“He comes!”

“The RING. _N O W_!”

This was the end for Waltolomew Stricklander, the changeling knew it, felt it in every aspect of himself. It was only him, Bular, the talking skulls, and the idle teen texting and sauntering through his nightmares.

“She- She just walked right through you!” went the changeling, his iced and Welling body slowly melting. The idea, and sensation of being stuck in mud fading, the skulls silencing, Bular chortling triumphantly. A last sinister laugh.

Stricklander snarled, “Pixies.” hit his hand against his head, caught the blasted pixie, and mercilessly ended it between his hands.

“Angor!” Stricklander continued, eyes glowing in a growing rage he hadn’t felt in some time. It was bad enough he had lost his senses to the thief within the same month. “You _dare_ attempt to distort my mind with a _pixie_?”

Being met with laughter did not ease his anger in the slightest. In a flash of green, Stricklander was in his troll form. Intention in his step to show Angor true nightmarish potential. “The nightmare would scare the ring from _my_ hand?” the changeling swung his hand, Angor, gasping, barely managed to dodge.

Hatefull anger continued to run up Stricklander’s back as he grasped at a want to control his situation, it already felt so out of his control. The changeling leaned to what had been shown to him years before, control through violence, anger.

Gunmar’s words echoed the square through his mouth, “You are a dog” Stricklander tightened his fist controlling Angor to stay painfully still, “and this is your leash!” and the changeling punched him hard enough to send Angor flying on his back.

Stricklander released his hold, relaxing his fist if only for a moment as the changeling closed his distance between himself and Angor.

“I am your master.” he continued, watched how Angor got to his knee to spring forward with his knife and used it to Stricklander’s advantage with a swift kick that sent the blade, and its owner flying.

In fairness Angor didn’t expect such show of strength from a troll form that looked so lean.

Stricklander caught the blade with ease, and twirled it expertly before pressing his weight on Angor’s chest, blade to his throat. “Obey my command,” Stricklander went on in anger, “and _kill_ the Trollhunter.” 

“Then you should avoid that school of yours tomorrow.”

Stricklander huffed an exhale from his nostrils, the rumble of a growl still in his throat. Instead of dropping the blade onto Angor, he twirled it again, and pressed his weight onto Angor’s chest with his foot.

“You’ve paid a great price for the power you have - gifted by the Pale Lady.” Angor motioned to toss Stricklander off him, but in a swift move the changeling tossed the dagger to his left hand and squeezed his right hand into a controlling fist. “I can respect that.” Stricklander continued over Angor’s grunts.

He pressed more weight onto his chest with his foot before stepping off the troll and backing away. “You are in service to the Pale Lady, I suspect you must answer to Her.”

Angor took in a breath, and coughed before getting up slightly.  
“She speaks.”

“In what ways?”

“In Her ways.”

Stricklander, with his head turned away, frowned, and changed tactics. “Indeed.” he nodded politely, spinning the dagger. “There _is_ a heaviness in hearing Her.”

Angor eyed the changeling suspiciously. “You’ve heard Her?”

“Of course.” At this Stricklander shook his head and horns like a deer showing off their antlers, “I’m a changeling, or aren’t I?” he eyed Angor carefully after that. Anticipating being called impure.

However, Angor stayed silent. As silent as the desert was to him.

“I won’t lie.” continued Stricklander icily, circling Angor with his ringed hand opening and closing. “I’m seething. For your insubordination alone I could just as easily have your jaw removed, and your ears filled with hot lead.” the changeling went to squeeze his hand tightly, but didn’t. He grinned a cruel smile at Angor’s anticipation.

Angor Rot spat at the ground, a stance the changeling ignored with years of practice.

“What do you want after your soul is returned, Angor?” Stricklander stilled his dagger twirling, and watched closer than ever.

Angor blinked several times. A part of him felt as though the question was genuine, another part screamed the question held a trick of some sort. “Why should you care?”

“Well, we do have our deal, Angor. You kill the Trollhunter, and I return your freedom.” Stricklander held out his hand and admired the Inferna Copula idly as magpies admire shiny trinkets. “What can I get you so you swear fealty to me, without the ring.”

“Fealty.” repeated Angor, finding the thorn at last.

“Together we will see to Her return. From one abomination to another.”

“With my soul I’ll be whole, you’ll still be-“

Stricklander squeezed his fist in such a way it cut Angor’s sentence off there.

“We’ll _both_ still be under the Pale Lady’s service. To think a soul can get you away from that, you are mistaken.” Stricklander explained through a bared smile.

Despite the pain, Angor found truth in the changeling’s statement. With or without a soul, Argante’s reach was long. The troll knew that well.

Stricklander released his grip with the ring and admired the blades on his collar. “Why be alone in such a regard? I can understand lowering yourself to the lot of half-breeds can be _demeaning_ to a troll.” Stricklander locked eyes on Angor, “But no troll will understand what you’ve been through, and to speak about the Pale Lady is the talk of Gumm-Gumms and half-breeds.”

Stricklander waited for his manipulative words to sink in. Unsurprisingly he was only met with silence.

“Fealty to me will be as if serve the Pale Lady. You’ll find our wants are quite similar.” Stricklander observed the edge of Angor’s dagger, the sharpness, the point, “- it’s merely pragmatical.” he looked up, almost laughably innocent. Angor seemed to still listen. “Join us, join _me_ , and I’m sure you’ll assimilate nicely. You’ll find half-breeds can be quite, _accommodating_ , so long as you don’t start asking for water and glug skins to be brought to you at random. You know your business and I know my business, we can find a way to work together without such,” he rolled the ringed hand as he spoke, “ _occulted_ means, I’m sure.”

“Should I refuse?”

Stricklander turned the dagger over, observing its other side at the hilt, “Unless you get in _my_ way, I don’t foresee any sort of quarrel.”

Angor Rot was contemplatively quiet for some time.

“You don’t have to answer me right away, Angor, though before you kill the Trollhunter _is_ preferable. Otherwise the terms are void.”

“I could just as easily end you once my ring is returned.”

“And I can just as easily make sure your ring is never returned, and leave you in _such_ a shit state. Blind, deaf, incapable of moving or talking to the Pale Lady. _Then_ how can you serve Her, hm?”

Angor stared at the changeling, unsure how capable he’d be to competently fulfill his threat. Yet apprehensive enough to not want to find out.

“You…have contact with Her?”

“In our ways, yes.” went Stricklander, like a hound on the scent. “There’s no need for bad blood. I understand the concept of one needing to do what one needs to, many half-breeds do. With fealty to me, you’ll obtain means of hearing the Pale Lady. Of better serving, as Her champion.”

“Are you, soulless?” Angor asked at last, with genuine curiosity. After all his thinking in the dessert, and his comparisons. Angor almost couldn’t help himself.

Returning to the question; do changelings have souls?

Stricklander, who was no mind reader however, misunderstood the question entirely.

Taking it in a way akin to being called soulless. Soulless for forcing an assassin to kill a child.

A child.

A fragile human fleshbag who’s voice had yet to change. With a sharp mind, and with such academic potential.

A child.

At this, Stricklander closed his hand into a painful fist as though twisting the strings of Angor’s being, and backhand punched Angor across the face. Making a point to hit him with his soul carrying ring. An irony the changeling enjoyed for the second time that night.

Angor Rot reeled back onto the ground, groaned, but smiled a cold sickening expression. As a dribble of dark purple dripped from his cheek.

It clicked in Angor.

The seeking for an assassin, the cat and mouse.

The aloofness the changeling demonstrated when Angor reminded him, before setting out for the Killstone, he’ll kill the Trollhunter only to be responded with an ‘as you wish’.

The reason for the waves of interest for the boy’s death to come, and go, and come back again.

“You have a father’s love for the boy.”

Without warning, Stricklander dug Angor’s dagger down, slicing his other cheek in the process of sticking it into the cement. With a decisive twist, he moved the blade and angled it so, with a slight push, or should there be struggle of movement, it could cut further still into Angor’s face.

“About as _fatherly_ as _Saturn_.”

Stricklander pushed himself off Angor, though not without a slight touch of the dagger risking another cut into the troll, and reverted back to his human guise.

Despite the show of cool and decorum while adjusting his lapels, the changeling’s eyes still glowed viciously.

“Now do your duty.” was all Waltolomew Stricklander said before walking off feeling rather pleased with himself.

As much as the changeling tried to demonstrate otherwise. Perhaps over demonstrate is the word. Angor was right, there was a fatherly bond of _some_ sort, and Angor Rot felt it to the numbness of his feet. And with that, that’d mean the hunt for the Trollhunter would never end, there was a risk it’d always be prolonged somehow, and if his hunt to kill the Trollhunter never ends…he’d never get his freedom back.

That wouldn’t do.

Attempt at bargains or not, that. wouldn’t. do.

“The ring _will_ be mine.” Angor said to Stricklander’s back under his breath, wiping the bloody colored ooze from his face.

So the pair walked off in different directions, returning to the same old sin. ****

 

          The Next Day

 

Principal Strickler’s alibis to the officer in front of his school were as followed; The dentist’s office to schedule an appointment, and on the 210 highway driving to the Arcadia Golf Course.

“To surprise our drama teacher, to think of inventive ways to save money for our school’s musical production. We need large umbrellas, and one thought well there’s one thing golf courses have, and don’t entirely need in California, now is there?”

The officer intentionally didn’t follow the joke, having heard enough drought jokes that could last a lifetime.

Strickler cleared his throat, “I wanted to personally see if the Golf Course would want to donate any unused umbrellas to the school.”

“Was there anyone with you in the car that can testify that?”

“No, but I was on the phone.”

“That’s-“

“Speaker phone.”

The officer seemed to allow that, and jotted something down on his note pad.

In truth it was really wondrous fortune Barbara called him when she did. The principal thought of his conversation with Barbara while showing the timetable of the phone call to the officer…

 

 

“Walt! Sorry, am I interrupting anything?”

“Hullo Barbara, not at all. Not unless you can magically make traffic move faster.”

“Hmm, let me try. Maybe I have some latent magical ability I don’t know about.”

He snorted a chuckle, “Alright.”

There was a pause of silent smiles on both ends. Though aside from a car honking, and a motorcycle or two trying to drive between cars to get ahead of traffic, nothing happened.

On a potentially unrelated note, the water’s of Lake Superior did become choppier.

“Did it work?” Barbara asked.

“Afraid not. Though my heart did skip a beat.”

“Pff I’ll keep working on it then, maybe I’ll turn into a walking defibrillator.”

“There’s a joke there, I know it- no don’t tell me…it’ll make contact hmm.” Walter could hear her eyes rolling.

Her voice filled with amusement, “Is it part of the screening process for teachers to have silly jokes? Or is that just you?”

“Definitely not ‘yes’, and certainly not ‘no’.”

“Ah-huh, ah-huh, ah-huh - spring boarding off that silly-ness”

“ _Silly_? That was nonsensical at best.” Walter adjusted his rearview mirror so he wouldn’t have to look at himself.

Meanwhile; Angor Rot was prowling through the Arcadia Oaks High School. Stepping over rambling teens who battled their fears, and nightmares in the waking world. A fleshling could easily be used as a shield, and perhaps would have been to a more horrific extent without a second thought- but Angor needed to corner the Trollhunter, _will_ him to his side.

“Ah-huh, okay. So about Mr. Blinky; whew, you wouldn’t believe what just happened.”

Walter started tapping his steering wheel. “Did his fake eye pop out?”

“He has a fake eye?!”

“Just teacher’s lounge rumors.” the changeling invented. “One of the teachers caught his eyes looking in different directions, and the theories started flying. Another on is that one of his eyes are fake.”

By now, to the students and teachers that stumbled into the teacher’s lounge, it was turned into a hodgepodge of coffee, lava, and inane obscurities that would make the works of Salvador Dali look normal and mundane.

Trollhunter or not, there were other students there. Students that, despite being a different species, he felt responsible for. _Was_ responsible for.

In Strickler’s earlier angered state the idea of bystanders getting hurt didn’t cross his mind. Shame swelled in him, as did a growing pang of pain where his horns would be.

Yes Angor Rot had his duty, his orders, but the troll had gone off script before.

“Gah! You distracted me. And I’m going to stop you right there before you say the joke I think you’re going to say.”

Walter inhaled a pained smile. In truth, he didn’t have a joke prepared. Perhaps in different circumstances.

“Me? Never!” Walter said all the same while opening his glove box. He leaned to the side and blindly searched with his hand for ibuprofen or tylenol.

Barbara pressed on, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but, ah, speaking of screening processes…I think you might have to re-check the credentials of your guidance councilor. Unless you know something I don’t.”

“About, Mr. Blinky you mean?”

“He just downed half of my whip cream, and used coffee as mouth wash.”

“Ah. Well.” he cleared his throat, “A few behavioral quirks is nothing to be alarmed about.” he consoled.

Walter moved a pair of boxy 70’s era glasses with false lenses and finally found the tylenol. He set about to opening the container and dry swallowed two pills.

“ _And_ just before practically _running_ out of my house, answered the phone to _President Eisenhower_.”

Walter Strickler shrunk in his seat, closing the container and tossing it over his shoulder to the back of his car. “Dwight’s still alive, is he?” he quipped dryly, the twinge of guilt writhing in his stomach. “Well that’s news to the historical society.”

“ _Walter_. I’m serious.”

“It _is_ serious- there’s a once believed dead president running around.”

“ _Walt_.”

“Yes, I - of course. I’m sorry.” He inaudibly sighed through his nose, steeling himself. “I’m listening, tell me more.”

Though the more Barbara talked, the more Walter’s hands felt clammier. It wasn’t too hard to put two and two together. If Blinky ran out of the Lake household suddenly, it’s safe to assume the caller was probably Ji- the Trollhunter.

_Grin and bare it, grin and bare it, you’ve had centuries in studying how to grin and bare it, she isn’t even looking at you._

Strickler’s hands started to wring on the steering wheel. His skin itched to run, and the traffic was still at a stand still. His back ached to feel the rush of air, and the traffic was still at a stand still. There was a helicopter flying by, the blades beating in such a rhythm his breath hitched, and the traffic was still at a standstill.

“Barbara?” he barely whispered. Walter cleared his throat and tried again, “Barbara?”

“Yes? Sorry, am I rambling?”

“No, no I…” Walter’s phone started to buzz which sent the changeling flying in his seat and nearly bumping the car in front of him.

“Walt are you okay?”

“No-I ah, yes! Grand all grand here. I’m getting a call from the school. Mind if I call you back?”

“Oh! All yours, no worries.”

Walter somehow managed a smile. They said their goodbyes, and after hanging up Walter Strickler gave himself fifty seconds to scream out his nerves in the car. He snarled a few times through his nose, eyes glowing as he bit at the air.

“Fucking! Facking! Fooking! Brilliant! Joost - brilliant!” he’d end with a hit at the steering wheel.

He recollected his decorum through the act of running a hand through his hair. The changeling picked up the phone cool as can be, “Hullo? …Yes, this is Principal Strickler…”

Walter Strickler didn’t call Barbara back.

 

          Coppéllius Dance Studio, what’s left of it

 

Stricklander was leaning against his car. Arms lightly crossed, a hand lazily holding onto his pipe. He worried at the mouthpiece and tried not to think of all the phone calls that rightfully bombarded his school office before coming here.

He stared at the charred husk skeleton of the dance school, and a locked collection box outside of it asking for donations to anyone who would like to help rebuild the school.

The ground still had ash, and the vegetation singed. It was a miracle the fire department got there in time before the whole area blazed.

Stricklander wondered how the couple who owned the building were holding up. What their faces must have looked like receiving the news.

Stricklander did a little research on the couple. They both found each other while dancing for the American Ballet Theater, they had a son who still lived at home with them. A lot of their stage production costumes were made meticulously by hand.

The costumes were perhaps the easiest to catch fire.

He considered how Giselle taught there with ease for the briefest moment, and just as easily felt alright burning it down (with him inside).

The changeling gained nothing from staring at the blackened walls, the hollow doorframe, the ribbon that surrounded the school warning trespassers not to come nearer. He didn’t even gain a morbid sense of calm. There was very little point to come here, aside from underlining how he felt somewhat responsible, yet here Stricklander was.

Chest heavy with the pouch Giselle had given him. He tried to open it again, but the drawstring refused to come undone. As if it knew, _now wasn’t the time_. He certainly felt rather low.

Headache still lingering like a phantom pain in his horns, the changeling tucked it away, and adjusted his grip on his pipe.

Otto’s car turned into the parking lot.

“Returning to the scene of the crime, are we?” he asked from his window.

“Thought I’d check the damage, perhaps have a think.” Stricklander didn’t move from his position, nor looked at Otto. 

He listened to the car door close, and Otto’s footsteps get closer.

“I see the boy is still alive.”

“Angor failed.” Stricklander said simply.

“Oh, he’s, he’s back is he?”

Stricklander grinned maliciously, “Nervous?”

Otto ignored him, and did his best to repress a giggle. He dropped his coat and hat over the hood of the car and leaned against it next to Stricklander crossing his feet and arms.

“You know mein freund, Gunmar was right…”

Stricklander sighed internally and made a gesture with his hand and pipe that motioned for Otto to, _alright, spit it out then_.

“That night when we were able to talk to him for the first time in centuries.”

“You mean when Bular and I talked to him, while you, Nomura, and Fragwa giggled behind a curtain like school children?”

“You _have_ gone soft.”

Stricklander scoffed the notion and knocked his pipe against his car, emptying it.

“You laugh but it’s true.” his voice became low. Otto didn’t want to escalate to a fight, but simply couldn’t not point out, “The boy lives Stricklander.”

Irritation radiated off of Stricklander, “Not for much longer.”

“He’s been alive for…a while actually.”

“Angor Rot will hunt him in his own way.” he explained while balancing the bit of his pipe on his lip. It left the changeling’s hands free to pull out a leather tobacco carrier. “It’s what he requested. And seeing as he already has a few Trollhunters dead by his hands, under his belt, more so than me… _well_ …” his face gave a distinct, _what do you think?_ look to it. Not feeling the want to point out the obvious. Stricklander removed his pipe to pack more tobacco in it.

Otto watched, and licked his lips. He made a show of patting for something and turned to Stricklander, “You wouldn’t have extra papers and a filter on hand, would you?”

Stricklander slid his eyes over expressionlessly, handed him his tobacco carrier, and leaned through the window for his glovebox.

“Since when do you wear glasses?” Otto observed over Stricklander’s shoulder. Noting the boxy frames on the dashboard.

"You don't recognize them?"

Otto squinted and raised his own glasses before chuckling, "From the Algiers incident!"

"It's a Le Fay miracle they've lasted this long."

“Huh…" went Otto, then, reminded by Stricklander's words. On the topic of survival. "There’s a difference in this Trollhunter though, isn’t there? -Oof!” Stricklander passed the supplies rather harsher than necessary. “Vielen dank.”

“Bitte sehr.” came the response through bared teeth and pipe. “Angor Rot has patience, an admirable amount, and likes to play with his food.”

“Ah-huh.” Went Otto setting himself to work on rolling himself a cigarette.

“There’s a lot to be gained in waiting, Otto, it isn’t stalling. It’s tiring.”

Otto made a face which made it clear he believed Stricklander with the same amount of belief that he personally held for the tooth fairy. None. He had more belief in managing to align the filter her was trying to balance into his cigarette.

“Julius Caesar, the Battle, and quite frankly a tragedy, of Alesia. During the Gallic Wars-“ he started to cite like an audio textbook.

“I don’t need a history review.” Otto reminded the changeling while licking to seal the papers.

“The Trollhunter is an adolescent human boy who was overworked to begin with. The anxiety of Angor constantly coming after him will drain him, where it’s already taxing maintaining two lives. He’ll slip and, eventually, die.” Stricklander set a hard look on the burnt dance school, lighting his pipe.

“It was fatigue that killed the beast, not a quick dagger in the back?”

“It worked for Caesar.” Strickler paused a moment, and started to make an anecdote on Ceasar’s death before Otto interrupted him.

“ _That_ was for a collected tribe, this is a _single fleshling boy_ \- and you’re no Caesar.”

“Would you prefer the term Καισαρ? Oh!” he snapped his fingers, “ _Kaiser_.”

Otto sarcastically pretended to laugh, and flicked open his zippo lighter. It was scratched with Otto’s own personal morbid reminders of his long lived life.

“Try not to burn the area down, hm?”

Otto kept making mocking faces as he inhaled his cigarette, holding it in a way such as soldiers did/do to hide the glow from their surroundings. “ _Dummkopf_!” he exhaled with a flash, “You’re being nonsensical about this. There’s so many ways you could do it. I’ve seen you shoot a crossbow at 680 yards.”

“Ah yes, I can see the headline now; ‘Bolt Found in Local Teen. Mystery Undergoing.’ ”

“Conjure storms with your occultism.”

“There’s this running joke in California about rain, perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

“Poison persons of power-”

“Ah, within the privacy of a filled and fully staffed cafeteria. Grand. Brilliant even.”

“-in plain sight.”

“If memory serves, that was before the invention of those…what are they called? OH _yes_ , cameras.”

“Excuses.” Otto said, pointing with his cigarette.

“Tact.” countered Stricklander.

Irritation seizing the polymorph he added darkly. “I’ve watched you sneak into a house and slice down a child in their crib because they risked wailing and giving our position away.”

Strickler swallowed thickly. He gave no excuse, no argument of following orders, or being a product of his time. Just a deep regretful pull of his pipe. He remembered the reasoning behind it. Like snuffing out a candle. It was his fault for not being quieter. His fault, and a child paid the price.

Otto watched his non committal reactions. It brought the polymorph no joy. He sighed and rested his hands against the car.

“I’ve also watched you try to nonchalantly aid in hiding a child or two, when it came to raiding villages with the Gumm-Gumms.”

Strickler exhaled slowly, smoke leaving his nose in thin billowy wisps.

“Moving barrels and blankets to obscure eye-lines is hardly hiding.” Strickler said at last.

Otto nodded. It was perhaps bar minimum at best, however, “Still better than the alternative.”

“Eating them for mercy?”

“Doing nothing.”

Strickler opened his mouth as if a counter statement would pop out. Yet nothing came. His eyes slid downward, trailing to the side as he gave himself a breath.

“Perhaps.” Strickler said quietly.

“Have you ever _really_ tried to kill him? The Trollhunter I mean.”

Strickler didn’t meet Otto’s eyes, but wordlessly pulled out his checkbook and pen, and started writing.

“I don’t think you have.” Otto shrugged. Trying to keep judgment out of his tone. “Some attempts, here and theres that had Bular fooled, but…”

Stricklander gave Otto a definitive hard look. A look that made it clear that pressing any further could be dangerous.

Otto trailed off, pulling at his cigarette, and looking at the endless blue California sky. Cloudless and blunt as ever. One might try to evade the truth, but the California sun was another thing.

When he looked back at Strickler, he was folding up a check and shimmying it into the donation box.

“Soft.” the polymorph exhaled, smoke framing him.

 

Corner of the Sky

 

           Etruria; or Rome, (depending on who one asked) BCE

 

The young changeling who took the surface life and impersonated Vel Strickler guided the family’s mule and cart deeper into the seaside village. The village rested below the hills where they lived. A tarp draped over baskets of olives, and vases of oil. His grandmother sat at the front of the cart.

Her hair pulled back, coarse, and curly. Her face square like, and set like a readied catapult with an opinion.

She contentedly watched her surroundings from the cart, eyes twinkling with amusement.

The smell of the sea, wet sand, and mollusks growing stronger in their nostrils. While the air filled with sounds of different languages. Egyptian, Celtic, Athenian, to name a few. The marching of Roman soldiers on patrol. Vel casted a worried gaze at the grandmother, she was never good at keeping her opinions from her face.

The Strickler family had organized a deal to trade olive’s for grain from the Nile. All brokered through Vel’s uncle who had taken to the merchant life.

Young Vel wasn’t much of a talker. But his green eyes were constantly wide and hungry for knowledge. There was a cognitive intelligence, the grandmother had noticed early on, an intelligence far beyond a usual six year old’s years. And she had seen her fair share of six year olds.

“Vel.” she’d say from time to time, when a sharp opinion spiked those cactus green eyes, and noticed the child would remain silent regardless. “Vel. Speak. It is a waste not to use the gifts the Gods gave you.”

Or when she’d notice the young child following a little too closely to his parent’s conversation, or an argument between his mother and uncle, she’d pipe up from her idle weaving and say, “I want to know what Vel thinks. And do not mock the Gods with ignorance.”

This tended to make the child want to talk less, and resulted to Vel becoming what some might describe as ‘pouty’.

It felt unnerving being so closely observed.

The grandmother must have picked up on this for one day she’d start trying to coax whispered conversations from the changeling. It would happen at random, in an attempt to catch the child off guard.

“Pass me some stones from the yard Vel. I wish to make bread.”

The child moved for the door, stopped, and sounding insulted said, “You have a perfectly good stone grinder, why do you need more rocks?

“For the flour.”

“You can’t make bread _out_ of stones.”

And the grandmother would knowingly grin and pinch the child’s cheeks, “How cleverly put, Vel, thank you for telling me.”

Vel, feeling cheated into talking, squirmed away, cheeks puffing in his usual pouty way.

Another instance being;

“How red do you think your Northern father’s face is getting, boy?”

“It’ll be redder than un-cooked clay if he keeps this up.” the child would say with the weight of one who had experienced many a nightly drinking benders themselves.

The grandmother would throw her head back and cackle, and try to collect the child into an embrace. But Vel always seemed to squirm away in time to run out into the olive fields and grumble to the trees.

In time, the old woman and her tricks grew on the child, as did the rest of the family. He realized her intentions weren’t to mock. Or blackmail some secret information and obedience. Able to call their actions by name, warmth. Nor did they resent the child for not dying in the woods as they initially thought their sickly child would. But rather, accepted it at ceremonious face value, as a plan from the Gods they’ll discover in time.

The grandmother wanted to try and see if this meant Waltolomew should start working at the temple the first chance he walked. His Northern father was against it, as he felt one could learn more from the harvest and trees than incense and animal entrails.

“Trees are good at teaching, they’re very patient, and carry many knowledges for children.”

“‘And cary a lot of knowledge’.” his wife would fondly correct, patting his hand. She continued sensibly, “I say he should work with my brother on the docks and shipping charters. How would the farm sell if he only knows the way of trees? Olive oil is useless if you don’t know how to sell it.”

“Both.” the changeling piped up with an unchanged stare from the room’s threshold.

The adults in the room gasped. The grandmother smiled.

“What was that?” leaned forward the Northern father.

“Yes, what did you say, Vel?”

The changeling looked at his bare feet. Toes wiggling. Pretending not to have heard them.

It did not fool the grandmother who leaned back in her chair, “Welll the boy ought to learn _both_ trades then. He can start with trees and learn what he can in market until he’s old enough to apprentice his uncle.”

“He’s only a child.” brought up the father.

The changeling’s cheeks puffed.

“He’s almost five.” whispered the mother, moderate amusement in her tone. Though low and not wanting to offend.

“The most serious five year old on the whole peninsula!” the grandmother barked a cackle, “He’ll have wrinkles by the time he’s seven.”

“I’ll do it.” said the changeling in as crisp and determined a voice any child could give.

Stumped, the adults looked at one another, and agreed.

“We’ll start in the morning.” said the Northern father. “So go back and get some rest Waltolomew.”

The changeling proved a hard worker. The glint of ambition not lost to the grandmother. He worked diligently, and those he interacted with, when he rarely did interact, were content in his work ethic. Even if he was a strange child who didn’t often act like a child. It was certainly an uncanny thing that was easily mentioned.

“Ah well.” the mother would say to anyone who brought this up, “It’s to be expected after living half of one life so short and being able to come back and live the rest. Perhaps Aita whispered something to him. Or he was ran from Charun when Charun came.”

Young Vel thought of all these things when they arrived before five people unloading grain. And what might be the foreman discussing with the grandmother.

“Listen old one.” he’d say. Getting the attention of the changeling like a whip.

“Hercle might have had 12 labors, but I went into labor _six_ times plenty, _and_ survived to simply be called ‘one’. It is ‘woman’ at best.” the grandmother snipped.

She clapped a callused hand on the young Vel, inhibiting him from stepping forward any further.

“Right…yes…all I’m saying is these are too heavy for you to cary yourself.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do say.”

“Then nothing is stopping you from doing it yourself now, is there?” the grandmother grinned with a twinkle.

“That’s not procedure.”

“You’re right. But I’m clearly too old, he is too young, yet the job must be done.”

Vel furrowed his brows, and looked up curiously at the grandmother. Confused why she was making a bigger fuss than necessary. Didn’t they know who his uncle was? Wouldn’t they be unloading anyways? Didn’t they recognize her, even through paperwork, and sigil alone?

Vel casted an anxious look at the Roman soldiers. If their attention was caught by all of this, it could cause even further trouble.

The foreman blew a raspberry looked skyward and scratched his hairline, unsure how to beat the old woman’s logic. He snapped his finger at a few of his men, whistled, and made a round gesture with his hand.

“There.” he said, as the men went to work.

Pleased the grandmother raised her elegant double chins.

“You’re very kind.” she’d wave as the foreman grumbled away.

Vel puffed his cheeks thoughtfully.

“What is it now, my neftś?” the grandmother coxed, patting the young one’s spongey hair. “Would you rather ask your sandals?” she added when the boy continued to stay silent.***** 

The little changeling mumbled something.

“Neither me or your sandals heard that. Speak up.”

“Why did you go through that trouble?”

“What trouble?”

The young one shifted where he stood, scratching his puffed cheeks. Not too pleased to being coaxed into talking more, “With the foreman. He should have known who you were. Not only that, I’ve _seen_ you carry those olives and vases.”

“Sometimes letting others think what they want has its benefits. I have nothing to prove.” she grinned, “but now I know my son’s foreman can be quite unkindly to old women.” the grandmother looked over to the pier and, spotting Vel’s uncle, waved. Smiling through her teeth she added, “And he _will_ hear of this.”

The changeling relocated his gaze from his sandals to the grandmother. Open mouthed with something akin to awe.

“Besides my neftś, wasn’t that a fun bit of mischief? It is no wonder the Gods enjoy masking themselves to mingle among us. For all anyone knows, I could be a Goddess, the foreman could be a God. The olives themselves could be a God. Maybe even… _you_!” and she attempted to scoop the changeling up to blow raspberries into his cheeks. The little changeling struggled, but ultimately allowed it. Giggling despite himself.

There was another instance which left a great impact on the young changeling. After hearing yet _another_ story of the great Hercle…

Vel, cheeks puffed as he ran his fingers over the relief image of a man with a giant club in leopard skin, looked up at last and asked, “Why is there such a fascination with Hercle? Aren’t there other stories?”

“Your father has his Aesir, and we have our Aisar.” ******

 

“Can’t I hear about the Aesir then?”

“You’d have to ask him. Those are his stories to tell.” she explained patiently. 

“Oh…” the changeling considered this. “Then why Hercle?”

“Hercle is one, if not the only, demi-mortal to ascend to Godhood from sheer action alone. His great deeds and many adventures allowed- no, _earned_ him to become one of the Gods. A testament that the fruits of our labors _do_ have their own reward. For Hercle, his place among the Aisar. For us,” the grandmother patted his head, and gave one of her terribly _knowing_ looks to the little changeling, “our place among our own Aisar, whatever that means to each of us.”

It was a conversation Waltolomew Stricklander kept in his heart for centuries. The idea of a DemiGod, or Half-breed, gaining ascension through their deeds.

 _Everything has its season, Everything has its time / Show me a reason and I’ll soon show you a rhyme_

Stricklander survived longer than he anticipated. A theme he’d find a cold bit of dark humor with in the long centuries to come.

His first week at Gunmar’s side were the usual subservient duties. The maintaining of weapons, the fetching of water and blood skins. The setting up of tents and maintaining sleeping quarters.

All while being treated, in what he saw, as an ‘equal’.

For Gunmar had his charismatic brilliance to him. That when he spoke - he found ways to make you want to listen.

Though what really struck a chord in Stricklander, was that the Gumm-Gumm Leader didn’t speak at the changeling, but _to_ him.

It was the third week that Gunmar allowed Stricklander to see the battle plans and maps. Though usually from a distance to the left of Gunmar.

Tactical battle opinions were only allowed when asked.

A month, and the changeling was allowed within the war tents.

Stricklander nodded where he knelt before the Gumm-Gumm leader.

“See their reactions, watch what they do when I am not looking.”

“Of course, My Grand Leader.”

“And Stricklander.”

The changeling screwed his eyes shut, back tensing.

“I’m trusting you to be the eye I lost.”

“Yes.”

“This is a proud moment for you.” Gunmar reminded him. He placed his sword under Stricklander’s chin, raising the changeling’s face up, “Be proud.”

“I-I’m very proud, ah, _honored_.”

Gunmar grimaced a smile, lowered the sword, and waved for a water-skin to be fetched with no further discussion.

 

One thing Stricklander realized when in the war-tents was that there was only one other changeling present. They sat in the corner, silently holding onto battle horn. Seemingly waiting, and occasionally putting the horn to their ears like a reverse ear-trumpet.

Stricklander noticed it was the only moment the Gumm-Gumms would tense around the actions of a changeling.

After listening to the horn the changeling would either shake their head, or speak in riddles;

“Avoid the Southern Ridge.”

“The answers you seek are beyond the Dolomites.”

“Seek the Krubera.”

“Go West.”

Afterwards, in the privacy of Gunmar’s tent, Gunmar would sit the changeling down, and stare expectantly for Stricklander’s thoughts.

“What of General Fruoon?”

“The General has…interesting ideas, but I doubt it would be wise to-“

“If I wanted a diplomatic answer I wouldn’t have bothered asking you. What. Do. You. _Think_?”

Stricklander swallowed, stammering slightly. His palms feeling clammier. Struggling to put together a filter for his thoughts to pass through before speaking.

With a swift move Gunmar dug his sword into the earth to threateningly lean against. It brought the changeling to stand further at attention.

“He’s an idiot, sir. His battle suggestions are always contradictory, and have too many submissions to equate to a proper recognizable goal.”

Gunmar leaned back, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “I will speak with him in private.”

Two nights later, Stricklander was tasked with killing General Fruoon in secret.

_Every man has his daydreams, everyman has his goal / People like the way dreams have of sticking to the soul_

The longer Stricklander managed to stay alive beside Gunmar, the larger his own confidence became.

Soon, he started to give his tactical opinions without being asked. It happened on accident the first time, and the changeling noticed that it pleased Gunmar, so he continued to do so.

Never in the War-Tents of course, always in private when preparations for the rising sun would begin.

It was this confidence and want to please Gunmar that lead to the changeling sneaking out during the day to search for the horn used in the War-Tents.

Stricklander wanted to give it a listen. To see if it would speak for him too. Perhaps give an edge to a strategy plan, or the future. Shocked more changelings didn’t know about such an artifact.

It was a muggy day, the earth soggy with rain. He could still hear the distant thunder. The overcast sky seemed to make the green of the grass that much stronger.

When Stricklander entered the War-Tent he was surprised the changeling was still sitting there. Stricklander always assumed the changeling left the tent last. Perhaps they somehow knew Stricklander would come?

Did the horn tell them?

“I don’t mean to disturb.”

The changeling lifted their head, quirked it so their ear faced Stricklander’s direction. It was in that moment Stricklander realized the changeling was blind. With all his spying, and watching from beside Gunmar - how had he not noticed sooner?

When the changeling didn’t say anything, nor give any sign of disagreement to this discretion, Stricklander continued, “I only wanted to observe the horn. Give it a closer look.” he paused then added like a remedied after thought, “For Gunmar, of course.” another pause, still silence. “I’m Stricklander, by the way. I’m sorry I’ve never caught what you call yourself.”

The changeling said nothing, but motioned Stricklander to come closer.

Standing up from their corner seat, they presented the horn with no argument. There was a glint of sadness in their features.

With the horn passing hands, the blind changeling leaned forward, pressing their tear stained cheek against Stricklander’s.

“Be careful, little brother.” rasped the changeling in a voice that hadn’t spoken in hours. “Be clever, little brother. Her path is terrible to tread.”

“‘Her’ path?” pulled back Stricklander, brandishing the horn that was passed to him in front of the blind changeling. “T-the Pale Lady’s?! Our _Creator’s_?!”

“No matter the deity, it is a great and terrible thing to be in their favor.”

Stricklander squinted at the changeling then at the horn. Concluding; _perhaps prolonged use and exposure to the horn produced certain…side effects._ Could the horn do such a thing?

“How long have you had this position?”

“Listen, little brother.” the blind changeling brushed on, cupping Stricklander’s face, “Didn’t Hera cast the madness unto Heracles? Killing his family and loved ones for Zeus’s transgressions. Heracles had no say in anything - the crime of creation, and being created.”

“Uuuh..”

“The 12 labors aren’t deeds-“

“When an Athenian tells it-“ Stricklander tried to politely deflect.

“-It is a long winding road, a redeeming road.”

Stricklander tucked the horn under his arm, and gently removed the changeling’s hands from his face.

“Ah-yes, quite. Thank you for that…Perhaps you should get some rest.” Stricklander patted the changeling’s hands.

 _A combination of tirelessly working in the War-Tents, and the horn of the Pale Lady, surely_ , he thought.

The changeling paused, and blinked sightlessly, “We might not ever be ready for Her voice, Green One.” and they walked on. Leaving Stricklander filled with an infinite amount of perplexities and curiosities.

He stared at the making of the horn, its curious shape and color. Almost engrossing himself, until realizing there was no changing flash at the corner of his eyes.

Stricklander turned, and dashed across the room to stop the blind changeling from going out of the tent. Grabbing their arm.

“Change first!” he reprimanded, “The sun’s out.”

A slow smile grew on their face, and the changeling nodded. “Quicker than Shigir’s crook you are. So it is.” They changed and left Stricklander alone with the horn.

A space usually feels quieter when someone leaves a room. And yet there in that space, filled an electrical quiet. Pregnant with anticipation. The quiet before a storm.

Distantly, the thunder rumbled again from a field far away.

Wetting his lips Stricklander resumed observing the horn. A simple object. He wondered why it was created. Who created it? How was such a connection to the Pale Lady possible - if it really was a connection to Her?

Taking a deep breath Stricklander placed the horn to his ear.

It wasn’t _unlike_ listening to a sea shell…there was something else to it. A wind that felt alive. Sentient. A deep rumble in a cave.

They say the the light of the stars we see in the sky could come from already dead stars. If that starlight glow had a sound, one could imagine what the following sounded like;

“Hello little lamb - my little lamb. I hear your heart beat so.

You are a good lamb ‘o mine. And my how your horns will grow!

In order to reap what you sow - you will need a crook of your own.

Be the crook in Caverns Deep.

Take the eye you’ll become.

In order to entrust - that the deed be done, make the next weapon your own.”

Stricklander heard himself gasp, as if breaching a water’s surface. He didn’t know how or when he returned to his quarters, but he did, waking in a cold sweat. Chest heaving for air, head dizzy as though a force was smothering him. The sheets and pillow of his cot damp with sweat.

Thunder rolled on the opposite side of the field this time.

The horn no longer in his grasp. Panic seized him.

He rushed out of his quarters and ran all the way back to the War-Tents.

Stricklander pulled back the tent flap, and found the blind changeling sitting in their corner. The horn on their lap.

“Is there trouble, little brother?”

“I-ah…no…” panted Stricklander, mind still racing, “no trouble.” forcing a smile for himself more so than the sightless half-breed.

After two weeks of disturbing dreams Stricklander would frequently wake disturbed and abrupt.

This time, he also woke in time to dodge the descent of a gold dagger. Rolling out of his cot. The blade struck into his pillow, releasing the already few feathers it had inside.

Stricklander pulled daggers of his own from his collar, parrying the next attempted swipe at him.

Now at a closer range, the offender leaned back and kicked Stricklander out of the tent. The offender followed, revealing themselves to be the blind changeling.

“Why are you doing this?!?” Stricklander asked, wary of having to fight someone he didn’t want to out in the open. In the middle of camp.

There was no need for needless death when it could be avoided. But if two changelings started going at each other’s throats it’s hard to stop, especially if a crowd of Gumm-Gumms starts forming. Looking to make a show of the spectacle.

But all the question did was alert them to Stricklander’s position. They charged.

“Don’t-” was all Stricklander managed to say before being forced to counter.

“Some impures are fighting!”

“What are they doing so close to the center of the camp?”

“Was this arranged?”

“This should be fun.”

“Doesn’t that one look familiar?”

“Which one?”

“The one with the horns.”

“They both got horns, rocks for brains!”

“I mean the ozzca ibex looking thing.”

“OOOooo!” The Gumm-Gumms chorused at the painful crack of a delivered head-butt.

“Bu-shi-gal.” tutted an onlooker, the rest nodded their heads.

The gold dagger sliced through the air towards Stricklander’s chest.

Stricklander hissed and grabbed the wielding arm, twisting the blind changeling into an armlock.

“Listen you - we can still find a way out of this. We don’t have to make a scene.”

They struggled against Stricklander’s hold, and attempted a backwards head-butt. “It, must be.” they said.

“What??”Stricklander twisted harder, “Use sense!”

Their struggling continued, which only succeeded to hurting themselves more. “ _Fight_.”

Stricklander glanced around at the gathering Gumm-Gumms, their situation getting stickier by the second. 

The sightless changeling, feeling the reluctance, lifted their head skyward, “I call upon Bertilak Bredbeddle!” Stricklander gasped, blanching even in troll form.

For, as the stories go, when the Green Knight is called - he always answers. Lingering in the absence of things. Ready to cut down or trip up any changeling who has run out of tricks, or tried to overstep their place.

It was, and is, considered bad luck to call the Green Knight’s name. As the Shigir stories go, he was the only changeling to steal their True Name from the Pale Lady - and suffered for it. Becoming, something else. An enforcer of sorts, with fealty to no one, doing no more than his his own duty.

The sightless changeling continued, “Whose Name will the Pale Lady whisper to Bredbeddle? Which of us must answer the call? Which of us will enter Her court?!”

There was no turning back now. No means of avoiding ‘finishing the fight’. Only one of them would be able to reach a tomorrow.

“Hope you have enough tricks.” Stricklander pushed them forward, a new grave weight added as they circled each other.

Stricklander waited for one of the watching Gumm-Gumms to make a sound before charging.

“The ozzca was that about?”

“It’d be more interesting if they were on Grave Sand.”

Sparks would fly caused from the friction between Stricklander’s daggers and the sightless changeling’s.

A parry, a dodge, a counter strike, a missed kick, an open opportunity.

The entertained smiles never left the observing faces. At some point even Gunmar appeared, and started watching.

Blood pumping to the ears in such a way that Stricklander was sure they could hear it too.

He stepped back as the sightless half-breed slashed horizontally three times.

On the third slash Stricklander caught the arm, delivered a kick to the changeling’s stomach that sent them bending forward, rotated the arm in a slight pirouette and used that momentum to force the changeling to stab himself with the golden dagger.

The changeling wheezed. A pale bloody substance sputtering from their mouth as they staggered in place.

Stricklander, blood still pumping loudly in his ears, staggered back as well. Eyes widening at what was done.

The effect of the golden dagger’s blade started to show, as the blind changeling convulsed, and started to swell like a balloon.

They smiled, as if thankful, anticipating a release. Their head lolling in Stricklander’s direction. For an eerie moment, Stricklander felt like they could see him.

With the last use of their arms, they pulled the dagger out of themselves, and attempted to present it to Stricklander. Its blade darkening slowly to black.

“the, Green Knight…”

Forcing himself to step forward, Stricklander’s eyes started to sting.

But before he could take up the offered blackening dagger, the sightless changeling erupted into an explosion of dust, covering the area, and Stricklander.

The dagger dropped to the ground.

The surrounding crowd erupted as if elated by a fireworks display.

Stricklander made no move to try and wipe the dust off of himself.

It wasn’t the half-breed way. As it is customary to wear the dust of those who passed, and those one killed, for as long as possible. Carrying that remembrance, and that weight.

He picked up the dagger, and attached it to his side somberly. Choosing to make it his own.

In that grave moment, now turning to the remaining dust on the earth, as he started to spread more of it on himself, (to the confusion of the Gumm-Gumm onlookers), Stricklander felt as though he was part of something…bigger.

_Thunderclouds have their lightning, Nightingales have their song / And don’t you see I want my life to be something more than long…_

“Yeah - got it. Did it already.” a changeling, Wilkam, snarked at a Gumm-Gumm.

Stricklander’s eyes bulged wide. His smile straining as he fast walked over. Painfully gripping at the changeling before the Gumm-Gumm could say anything.

“I’ll handle this impure.” Stricklander supplicated, slapping the changeling upside the head for added measure. “Remind them what manners are.”

The troll lingered. Contemplating bashing Stricklander to the ground as well. It was a look he recognized well.

In a flash, Stricklander expanded and showed off a rather impressive wingspan which made the changeling, at a quick glance, seem bigger than he was. The gold dagger with embedded emeralds at the hilt glinted at his hip.

“Gunmar did want me to make sure things run smoothly, after all. It’d be a _shame_ if there were any delays.” Stricklander courteously reminded.

The Gumm-Gumm exhaled a snort like a bull before stomping off.

As soon as they were out of sight, Stricklander rounded on the changeling.

“Did the Green Knight trip up your sense? Do you want to get in trouble?” he snarled, “Give them a reason to chisel you in human form? Or go through a Gaggle-Tacking? Because believe me they are not merciful about it.”

Wilkam spat in the direction of the Gumm-Gumm. Showing his immature age. Stricklander slapped him again. “I’ve had it with the way they treat us!” Wilkam retaliated.

“Watch. your. _volume_. This isn’t the outskirts, this isn’t some infantry brigade march where all you have is a single general to worry about when it comes to repercussions.”

“Easy for you, waltzing around like Gunmar’s favorite.”

Stricklander chose to ignore that, “You want to survive to see the next solstice? It’s simple. You don’t have to like it, but you can’t show you _don’t_ like it.” Wilkam made a face. “When the Gumm-Gumms are happy, you can be happy.”

“But not too happy.”

“Think of it like a game. Except if you fail, you die.”

Wilkam didn’t look impressed, then again not many are with the prospect of death.

“Play their games, follow their rules, and soon you’ll find you have enough power of your own to make a difference. Let them believe what they want, we’ll prove them wrong in time.”

“Oh yeah?!” challenged Wilkam, his voice echoing in Stricklander’s head at the next gathering.

Gumm-Gumms and half-breeds alike brought together to watch five changeling culprits become an example. Wilkam was part of the chained changelings. He wouldn’t stop glaring at Stricklander.

They knelt before a pacing Gunmar who was talking to everyone in the camp.

Stricklander kept his hands behind his back. His cloak masking how tightly balled into fists his hands were. Maintaining as neutral a look as he could manage.

“And you with all your power, what difference have you made?” Wilkam’s voice echoed. Remembering their conversation.

“It’s, it’s something that takes time, brother.” Stricklander explained with a bittersweet clench of his voice. “For now, we have to be clever enough to make do. Let them believe what they want. We’ll prove them wrong in time.” he repeated, hoping own mantra would catch on.

“And how many of us will perish in the meantime?” Wilkam’s question rang in Stricklander’s head.

Gunmar raised his blade, the Gumm-Gumm Wilkam insulted smiling brighter than everyone. Stricklander, no longer in the anonymous safety of the crowd, was no longer in a position to look away without being questioned by his superiors.

He felt like his insides were slowly turning inside out.

The Decimaar blade would come down.

And Stricklander watched.

Expectation can be a cancerous thing. 

Setting itself firmly into the soul. Whittling away wants, and rotting one’s insides. Needs sacrificed at a bloody altar.

There is praise to be given to the fabled Damocles.

But just because the sword hanging over the king’s head is normalized - doesn’t change the fact that there is still a sword.

A sword over one’s head.

A sword.

The wind was howling, and the trees bent their shape with it.

Stricklander slammed a fellow changeling into the rough bark of a pine tree.

“Are you mad?!” he hissed.

Naomi blinked, trying to regain sight, and shook her head. Her horns tapping against the tree in the process.

“It would be better for all if he died.” Naomi pushed him off her, breaking Stricklander’s hold.

“What you’re suggesting is - is, _unrepeatable_ -”

“You and your superstitions.”

“-Treason of the highest form!”

“Are you saying it _isn’t_ what you’ve been working towards?” she countered, her look all too knowing.

Stricklander’s response was lost to the wind. Yet the glowing green spark in his eyes spoke the unspeakable.

“That’s what I thought.” said Naomi.

Stricklander screwed his eyes shut.

The pained look wasn’t lost to Naomi. The way Stricklander exhaled sharply.

Yet it set her guard low enough that she didn’t expect Stricklander to draw his dagger on her. Striking just centimeters from her cheek and piercing into the bark behind Naomi.

“If you say that nonsense again. If you even _think_ it.” Stricklander paused, shaking his head, letting the words sink in, “I can’t help you.”

Although Stricklander would go on with his conniving machinations, somewhere down the line “I can’t help you.” transformed into, “you’ve been compromised.”

No longer allowing any room for helping hands. He’d reach a position where he could no longer risk it.

And like the dying branches of a tree, the branches would either heal, or become lopped off to save the integrity of the tree.

If a changeling would get themselves in a sticky mess, they’d better hope to Shigir they were clever enough to get out of it themselves.

A bigger picture must be seen.

The tree must continue to grow, and stay healthy, or else there’d be no hope for fruit. For legacy.

Such a dangerous viewpoint. 

_So many men seem destined, to settle for something small / But I won’t rest until I know I’ll have it all_

“Call me Balaga” Stricklander pulled up in the cart in front of the trolls grinning, “It seems you folks need a ride.”

The trolls’s tearstained faces looked up, huddled together. Their village roaring in chaos and fire behind them.

“Ya think?!”

“Sssh! Silence Fruthkrum. It’s a miracle that a supply run was headed to our village at all.”

“Yes.” smiled the disguised Stricklander. “Fortuitous.” an explosion echoed in the distance. “Now up you get - hurry!”

“How can we ever repay you?” asked a hooded troll.

“Oh I don’t do this for currency.” Stricklander responded to all, eyes poignantly looking at the hooded troll.

“Then how about for Pahgne?” responded the hooded one shaking a dark container of what ought to be filled with a bubbly sweet glug.

“Yessir!” Stricklander extended his arm to help the troll up to sit next to him. Grinning all the while. “Hey ho yessir!”

“What’s Pahgne?” asked a young troll who popped her head between them.

The hooded one realized with a wince Pahgne wasn’t the right dialect for a North East troll specific mission. 

“The stars!” Stricklander said dramatically. Happy the scheme was going on so well so far. Regardless of word-use, they had what they came for. “Le vin du diable!”

The hooded troll looked skywards for patience. “A bubbly sweet glug.” This seemed to appease the youngling’s curiosity, for now. “Now, I’d hold on tight if I were you.”

“Is everyone on?” called back Stricklander prepping his whip.

“We’re all on!” called a troll slapping the outside of the cart.

“Yessir yessir yessir!” Stricklander swirled the whip over his head, and cracked it.

Sending the beasts of burden flying down the muddy path. The cart recoiling and jerking in such a way that those on board gave a unanimous startled groan.

The hooded troll beside Stricklander held onto his seat, and with great effort said nothing about the Pale Lady helping him hold his meals down.

This went on for sometime until Fruthkrum exclaimed, “Slow down you mad troll!”

Stricklander laughed with unrestrained glee. The loud groan of the hooded troll lost to another of Stricklander’s whip cracks, mouthing along as he responded joyfully, “No one tells Balaga to slowdown!!”

The whip cracked two more times, sending the cart to precariously pick up more speed.

More bushigals followed, though the youngling who asked about the champagne squealed with fear infused delight. She almost forgot her home was in the process of being destroyed.

“Shuri! Get. Down.”

The hooded one did a double take behind him. Looking at the youngling who held her claws in he air with joy.

“Ach! Listen to your mother!” he said pushing Shuri back.

The cart’s wheel hit a bump, risking to topple the cart.

“What are you doing?!” snapped the hooded one through his teeth.

“Playing my part.” cracked Stricklander, “We have to flee from the scary Gumm-Gumms.”

“ _With_ our lives, dummkopf”

“Go Balaga! Go!” squealed Shuri trying to slip away from her mother’s grip.

“You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

Stricklander cracked the whip again, “Yessir! Hey ho yessir!”

Galloping at maddening speeds the village soon became a distant smokey glow. 

Twenty minutes of soul searching, and making peace with gravity, _and_ the void beyond, the hooded one leaned to the side.

“Listen ‘ _Balaga_ ’, I don’t want to tell you how to drive, but you’ll run the beasts to the ground at this rate.” the disguised hooded Otto clapped a hand to his side to make sure he hadn’t lost what they came for between all the bumps and curves. “Last I checked, your cart _isn’t_ pulled by magic star and yolk filled horses!”

Stricklander considered Otto’s words, when unfortunately his hawkish eyes widened. He spotted a few Gumm-Gumms that blocked the path way down the road.

The changeling cursed, “They were supposed to block the other side.”

“Maybe they’re lost.”

“You _really_ believe that?”

“Look out!” cried a passenger from behind.

“Oh we’re doomed.” moaned a mother gathering her twins close.

For a good moment Stricklander thought of slowing down, letting the Gumm-Gumms take the run away passengers, and waltzing away with what they came for with no further trouble.

“What’s going to happen to us Balaga?” looked up Shuri innocently.

Stricklander shouldn’t have looked back. Shouldn’t have seen those fearful young wide eyes.

Stricklander cursed the heavens.

“Prep my crossbow we’re plowing through.”

“We’re WHAT?!” snapped the hooded Otto.

“Prep it.” Stricklander commanded with a snarl. “Aim for the eyes.”

“You’re mad.” muttered the disguised Otto reaching for the crossbow and arrows. “This is it. This is how the Green Knight takes us both.”

Stricklander flicked his clawed thumb against the whip’s grip, causing a spark akin to striking flint. With another crisp crack, and gush of wind, the whip was sent ablaze.

“Balaga _always_ reaches his destination!” cried Stricklander.

The passenger trolls called upon the Trollhunter’s grace to survive this mad cart driver.

Shuri, face illuminated by ‘ _Balaga’s_ ' cracking fire whip, wouldn’t stop smiling.

Otto took aim, his mouth full with more arrows, and fired.

The arrow hit a latch on a Gumm-Gumm’s helmet that caused it to topple off. Another arrow hit the troll’s cheek, causing them to slowly turn to stone.

As shocked retaliation, several Gumm-Gumms launched their lances. Those that came close were whipped out of the way.

“Alright you lot.” called back Stricklander. “On my mark someone launch an olive oil jug forward, and to the left.”

Otto’s eyes widened, but his mouth was too full of arrows to say anything.

The troll Fruthkrum nodded and struggled forward with the jug, It was quite a balancing act with the way the cart was shaking.

“Steady now…” cautioned Stricklander

“Shuri come here!” cried Shuri’s mother, “And put that down!”

“ _Steady_ …”

Otto fired his penultimate arrow into a Captain’s eye socket. “Strickl-!”

“NOW!” cried Stricklander.

Fruthkrum jettisoned the jug with all his strength, sending it crashing against the Gumm-Gumms in a whirl of clay and powder. The beasts charged on and Stricklander cracked his fire whip.

“Hang on!” was all Stricklander warned.

The powder sizzled with whip crack, sparked, and ignited with such an explosion that sent the surrounding Gumm-Gumms to pieces.

The cart became airborne from behind. Not wanting the cart to zoom overhead, the changeling continuously cracked his whip giving fearful shouts, pushing the beasts to gallop as fast as their legs could carry them.

The back wheels bounced and risked shattering with its return to the road.

Stricklander passed the reigns to a bewildered Otto. “Take this. -You!” pointed the changeling to Fruthkrum. “Pick up that jug and launch it there on my mark.”

The troll nodded heaving another jug. Stricklander balanced himself to stand and turn. Glowing green armor started to charge forward through the trees.

“Now!”

Fruthkrum threw the jug, Stricklander jumped, the momentum sending him to the back of the cart. The changeling swung his whip around with an echoing crack that broke the jug and ignited the powder within.

Needless to say the encroaching Gumm-Gumms were blown away.

The passengers roared and cheered, the changeling caught himself from falling off the cart completely.

Stricklander allowed himself to give a vindictive smile at the stoney remains of the Gumm-Gumms.

Initially it was all a spiteful retaliation, really. Someone paying for someone going against orders. The needless explosions could have been avoided if the Gumm-Gumms stuck to the plan he earlier laid out.

Yet here the changeling was, getting congratulated for his own quick thinking.

“Lot of surprises on the road.” Stricklander said to undermine what he had done for the cart passengers, “Just lucky.”

“Balaga, why are you carrying fire powder?” asked a troll as others continued to clap Stricklander’s back.

Otto slapped his palm to his face, then yelped when he feared he lost hold of the reigns.

“It was by Vendel’s request.” Stricklander smoothly lied. “To help fortify the village.”

“If only you arrived sooner.” a mother said.

“Ah-yes, erm. Indeed.” Stricklander said while shimmying to the front of the cart. The fire whip coiled over his head.

Stricklander’s path was blocked by a tiny set of arms hugging him.

“Thank you Balaga.” said Shuri.

Otto made a gagging face that no one saw.

With great awkwardness the changeling patted Shuri’s head. “Yes - well - ah- my whip is on fire, so…” Stricklander picked the giggling troll youngling up by the scruff and passed her to the first adult troll in reach.

“O Balaga of the egg shells,” said Otto passing the reigns back over to Stricklander, voice full of sarcasm, “please drive us to Our Lady’s Court - your Mistress awaits.”

“Of _course_ , Shigir.” Stricklander half bowed.

“I know about Ligir!” pipped up Shuri. The two disguised changelings shared a look, but didn’t correct the youngling. “There’s a nursery rhyme and everything.”

“Is there now?” went Otto readjusting his hood.

“~Beware Ligir! He lives off your fear! So stay close to Mommy Dear!~”

“Charming.” Stricklander looked behind him, the adult troll whom he passed Shuri off to shrugged. It wasn’t his child after all.

Shuri's true parents were consoling one another, soothing the other’s nerves in the corner.

“Fast bugger aren’t you.” Stricklander said begrudgingly to the youngling over her giggles.

The youngling quickly made herself at home, sitting between the two of them.

“And shouldn’t you listen to such a song? Heed its warning?” Went Otto, repositioning himself to better concealthe stolen contents in his cloak. “You wouldn’t want Ligir to steal you away now, would you?”

“Naaaah” she tittered shaking her head, pressing her hands against her mouth that made her cheeks squish. “Balaga’s here!”

“And my whip is still on fire.” Stricklander pointed out, awkwardly pushing Shuri to sit closer to Otto.

 _This is your fault_ , Otto mouthed over her tee-heeing head.

Stricklander ignored him, and cracked his whip, sending the cart to recoil with a jerk.

The beasts groaning with a huff.

“Are they tired?”

“Obviously.”

“Yes.” Responded Stricklander with a strained smile. Eyeing Otto to behave. It wasn’t the youngling’s fault they found her presence troublesome.

“Do you want to hear another nursery rhyme?” Asked Shuri helpfully.

“Please don’t.”

“It wouldn’t be wise.” Stricklander responded over Otto’s sneer, “You don’t want the driver to fall asleep - right?”

“Oh…right.” Share started kicking her little legs out.

Otto exhaled impatiently, and quickly removed the crossbow from near her legs. Last thing anyone needed was an unintended arrow.

A painful silence followed. Stricklander and Otto continuously checked over their shoulder to see if anyone would claim responsibility over the youngling.

“I’m bored.”

“But alive.”

“How about a story?”

Shuri’s eyes lit up, Otto rested his head into his palm. “Yes, let’s start a Telling Circle while we’re at it.”

“What’s that?” asked Shuri her wide eyes looking between the disguised changelings.

“Ignore him. What kind of story would you like to hear?”

Shuri started shaking Stricklander’s arm. “Have you been on many adventures, Balaga? Was this the first time you were chased?”

“Little troll, please- my arm.”

Otto did a bad job hiding his smirk.

Stricklander shifted in his seat, and let the whip drag against the dirt so the fire would put itself out.

“Well, ah, alright. Lets see… A long time ago, in a distant place - though not unlike this land, there were these _eggs_ …” started Stricklander.

Shuri easily let herself be swept away in Stricklander’s story. Edited of course. Though a harrowing one all the same. With poultry goods, and tea cups, over stuffed carriages, and quite the crafty friend.

“Ah, but in _which_ tea cup is the question. So the Gumm-Gumm checked the first one, but-“

“It wasn’t there!”

“Correct.”

Thus, the edited tale of the Balaga Eggs went on uninterrupted, until Shuri fell asleep. Or rather, until Otto noticed Shuri fell asleep and signaled Stricklander to look.

The youngling was leaning against the disguised changeling, open mouthed and drooling.

“Well then.” said Stricklander raising his brows, “That’s _that_.”

“The devil is her mother? She was constantly calling her earlier.”

“That was before the chaos.” tutted Stricklander. “With all this Ligir/Shigir mixup you’d think they’d keep a closer watch.”

“Pah!” said Otto crossing his arms indignantly. Bitterness seeping.

A silence happened that made Stricklander think that was the end of that discussion, but Otto simply couldn’t let it go.

“It’s this sense of communal upbringing that I blame.”

“Is it now?” Stricklander glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was paying their conversation much attention. A good portion were sleeping.

“Yes!” Otto nodded, fervently whispering on, “This alright-ness to just let their children wander, hang about anyone. You passed this one off to someone, and they let her wander on, yes?”

“Ye-“

“-And here she is! Her mother? Who knows! Not a care in the world. Why should she worry about her whereabouts if we’re all going the same direction.” Otto looked down at the sleeping Shuri. “Pah! And they have the gaul to make rhymes, so the children will be more aware.” Otto leaned, “It isn’t the children who should be more aware. The adults should take more responsibility.”

Stricklander chortled, not daring to interrupt Otto’s ranting, or mention that Otto was preaching to the choir.

Otto leaned back in his seat with a harrumph, fishing for a pipe in his cloak, “She’s too old to be picked off by a goblin anyways.” Otto worried at the bit, hurumphing yet again when he realized he was out of herbs to fill it with. “If they were more attentive maybe, maybe it wouldn’t be so easy to…well…there’d be less of us, wouldn’t there?”

The changelings sat in solemn silence. Shuri yawned and stretched in her sleep. The cart creaked and shimmied onward down the road.

An uneventful hour passed when the cart and its passengers were confronted yet again. This time by…

“Vendel!” gasped Fruthkrum. The name alone stirred many of the passengers awake.

“Brilliant.” grumbled the changelings.

The hooded Otto kept an eye out skyward. It was a few hours until dawn.

“Friends! Brethren! It warms me so to see you made it alive.” called Vendel.

“How did they get ahead of us?” Stricklander muttered through a manufactured smile and wave. 

As the cart slowed to a crawl and they approached a little closer, the answer came in the form of a parked Gyre. Of which stepped out none other than Deya the Deliverer.

“Could have handed them over, but noooo- _Balaga_ here wanted to show off.” Otto said through the smile of his teeth.

“Let’s just stay calm.” Stricklander said through his own smiling teeth. “They have no reason to suspect us. In fact the Gumm-Gumm stunt can work in our favor.”

“We still have one more arrow prepped in the crossbow.”

“Good.”

Deya's armor clinked as she stepped forward. “While it is wonderful to see you are all safe. There is but one problem.” Stricklander tightened his grip ever so slightly on his whip.

“Something important has been stolen from your village. Something your village was tasked with guarding. We have reason to believe you’ve been traveling with a changeling.”

Everyone on the cart, including the disguised changelings sitting at the front, gasped in surprise.

Almost instantly, finger pointing started to prickle through on the cart. From Fruthkrum who was _always_ knew there was _something_ suspicious about Sheeka. To Kalin being far too shifty eyed for their own good.

“Well, why else would you be so good at playing reccos?!”

“Maybe because I’m _good_ , Flim!”

“Now please, there’s no need to panic. This, oh bother, this won’t solve anything!” said Deya lifting her hands.

“Did you hear that Balaga? Reccos!” elbowed Otto.

“Well I _never_.” in fact, Stricklander couldn’t remember the last time he played reccos.

The actual changelings tried to look just as stunned and beside themselves as the rest. Their eyes following the line of accusatory fire, and giving the appropriate head nods and listening sounds. 

“Please, before anyone says something they’ll regret. We’ve brought gaggle-tacks.” Deya appeased.

The crowd grew silent, and the changelings straightened. The humidity and the air cooling in its pre-dawn crisp chill caused a fog to slowly begin to roll in through the trees.

Deya approached the cart with the gaggle-tack. Stricklander’s mind started to race, shushing Shuri who had started to stir awake. Distractedly he placed a finger to his mouth, sleepily Shuri mirrored him.

The obvious start would be to tack front to back.

The cart itself was slowly beingsurrounded by Vendel’s men.

“A changeling among us? I just don’t see how that’s possible.”

“We were even confronted by Gumm-Gumms, surely-”

“They’re a ruthless lot, they are.”

“Shuri? Where’s Shuri??”

“Oh _now_ she’s worried.” muttered Otto under his breath. Shuri stirred all the more, rubbing her eyes and then her face against Stricklander’s shoulder.

Stricklander, glancing down, realized their tool for escape.

“Balaga, give me back my daughter.”

Stricklander looked down at the barely awake Shuri in his arms. His expression increasingly harder to read the closer Deya got.

“Balaga?”

Pleasantly, he smiled and nodded, readjusting his hold on Shuri so she could be held with one arm.

Deya stopped in her tracks furrowing her brows.

“Balaga?” said the mother, concern growing in her voice, “My daughte-”

The following happened simultaneously;

Deya threw the gaggle-tack at Stricklander, Stricklander reached for his whip, cracking it sideways.

The changeling didn’t hit Deya, but the desired effect of having her jump back was made. Meanwhile the gaggle-tack struck true against his collar bone.

The changeling groaned into a flash of green crackling light.

A forced change is always an unpleasant and more straining change.

Stricklander’s glamour mask fell away to reveal Stricklander’s human form wearing a knee length embroidered tunic lined with rabbit fur, and silver cotehardie. A chaperon on his head, with side lacing boots on his feet.

Shuri blinked up at Stricklander, her eyes fluttering rapidly. Momentarily blinded by the forced changeling flash. With every eye flutter the more the after image of the troll Stricklander was once impersonating faded.

It was jarring to say the least.

“B-Balaga?” her voice floated up. Only to get lost in the unanimous gasps that followed. Even from Otto.

“ _You’re_ a _changeling_?!” the polymorph said, “Betrayed! Twice betrayed!” a hand to rose his chest looking more affronted than scared.

Shuri stared up at the stern fleshy new face. Accepting and not understanding all in one. As children were known to act.

Everyone held their breath, as if fearful any miss-step on their part and Stricklander would do something horrid on the spot.

The changeling shook his head to shake the stars and after image blotches that floated in front of his vision. An after effect of the forced change.

To make sure no one snuck up on him while regaining composure, Stricklander circled the whip around, cracking and snapping any potential heroes at bay. It worked, at first.

Otto, continuing his act, also backed away - all the while keeping the prepped crossbow close.

Shuri’s mother began to weep, while Shuri herself stared, confused, as young ones do. Unsure if it all was part of some sort of game she wasn’t aware of.

Little hands reached up to poke at Stricklander’s face in curiosity. Eyes wonderstruck as Shuri tried to conceptualize that the stoney troll from before was now human.

Then again it was Shuri’s first encounter with a changeling outside of cautionary tales and rhymes. By all accounts so far, she didn’t understand all the fuss.

“Balaga?” Shuri asked pulling on the changeling’s ear. Their shape were so strange to her. The ear cartilage a curious texture compared to the usual stone of ordinary trolls.

“Little troll- please.” Stricklander said leaning his face away.

Her face brightened innocently with a partly gummy smile. “It _is_ you.” she whispered.

It would be unrealistic to not mention the inkling of regret that prickled Stricklander’s evergreen eyes.

But the world is harsh, and there was cruelness in the changeling’s bones.

Life, with great misfortune, cannot stop for the innocence of babes and younglings. A war was on, and, sadly, even the young were not excused from it.

Something all changelings knew well.

The changelings were surrounded, and Shuri would soon realize what the word ‘hostage’ means.

Shuri snickered at how strange and furry Stricklander’s eyebrows were. It didn’t distract the changeling from hearing the cart groan and wobble with someone discreetly trying to sneak up from behind.

Stricklander glanced at Otto, who raised his brows in a way to indicate whoever it was - was _big_.

He had a hunch who it was, and started to calculate a plan.

Letting the troll get close enough, reading the expressions of the onlookers grow more hopeful the closer the troll got.

Stricklander’s eyes blazed like hot coals as he snarled Shuri’s hand from touching his face again, even going so far as to snap his teeth.

Shuri recoiled.

As expected, it was Fruthkrum, feeling personally betrayed after having worked together to fight off the Gumm-Gumms, who attempted to lunge at Stricklander.

The changeling blinded the troll by intensifying the brightness in his flashing change. Shuri winced her eyes shut, and Stricklander kicked Fruthkrum off the cart.

Once again after images floated in front of Shuri’s eyes.

Stricklander raised his arm to deliver a blow, but was yanked backwards off the cart by Deya pulling on the whip.

“Balaga?” croaked Shuri in Stricklander’s arm, as he scrambled back to his feet. She gasped at the yellow cat like eyes that met her in return.

“Don’t just stand there, use that blasted thing.” called Fruthkrum to Otto.

“But my daughter! What if he hits my Shuri?!”

“Be sharp, stranger.” cautioned Deya.

Otto and Stricklander shared a meaningful look.

Otto stepped forward, and took aim with the crossbow. Just as all believed he’d hit the changeling, the polymorph pivoted shooting the arrow towards Vendel instead.

Deya was far too well armored that it’d have been a waste of an arrow.

Luckily, or unluckily, a guard jumped in the way to spare Vendel from a stoney end.

By the time the crowd recovered from the shock, Otto and Stricklander, who now struggled to keep a fearful Shuri in his arms, were back to back.

“ _Two_ of them!!”

“My Shuri!!!”

“Mamma!!!!”

“Give it up changelings, you’re surrounded.” said Deya, though lacking in grace.

“Anyone so much as lifts a claw,” Stricklander removed a bladed knife from his mantel, pressing it to the traumatized Shuri’s throat, “and the youngling gets it.”

Shuri became very still, cheeks puffing and deflating with how quickly she started to breath. Tears of betrayal prickled her eyes. Her mother wailing all the louder.

“You wouldn’t.” Deya stepped forward, “You need her alive as leverage.”

“Oh, we can do this till morning.” said Otto pointing to the coming dawn hued sky with the empty crossbow.

“And then some.” added Stricklander with ease.

“Can _you_?” the polymorph stared unblinkingly.

Deya grounded her stance, but ultimately didn’t move, “Hold your positions.” she ordered.

Shuri started to snivel and whimpered something that sounded like, “Why? Weren’t we friends?”

The changelings ignored this, (with some difficultly).

“Surely we can come to an arrangement of _some_ sort.” placated Vendel.

Otto smiled, taking in a breath of relief. He was just about to say, “Let us go freely.” when Stricklander cut in and said instead;

“The youngling’s life for the Frost Candle.”

The crowd started to murmur, someone finally shushed Shuri’s mother.

Otto’s eyes bulged whispering through his teeth, “You’re pushing it.”

“Steady now.” responded Stricklander, also through his teeth. Their miniature asides masked by the crowd’s murmuring.

“What makes you think he has it?”

“Look how he’s considering.”

“More like considering if the life of the youngling is worth the trouble.”

“No!” said Deya, but further protests were silenced by a wave of Vendel’s hand.

“I don’t have it on me.” said Vendel at last.

Otto’s eyes narrowed with a frown. Unappreciative of such a half-baked lie, or being taken for fools. Honestly Vendel could have at least put some effort.

“Are you _quite_ sure?” asked Stricklander pressing the blade hard enough to draw blood.

Tears fell without restraint from Shuri’s eyes.

“I have it! I have it!” Vendel said. “Stop this at once!”

“Otto, if you please.”

“Why of _course_ mein freund.” The polymorph walked over to Vendel half way, and outstretched his arm.

“Wait!” called out Deya, stopping everyone from moving and breathing. “Won’t the fog get in the way of the sun?”

Stricklander looked as though he risked pushing the knife deeper into Shuri’s neck.

The fog _had_ rolled in considerably, and by now most of the surrounding trolls, the changelings, and Deya were nearly lost to one another in hazy obscurity.

Stricklander spoke on. “Ah, is _that_ how the sun works?”

Deya brought forth Daylight as a response.

Shuri's mother gasped fearfully, and Stricklander tutted a ‘no’. Using the bladder dagger to lift Shuri’s chin. The changeling’s eyes, in troll form, shown like modern day fog lights.

It was enough of a distraction for Otto to morph into a small field mouse. The polymorph scuttled towards Vendel, searching his pockets.

The fog in the suspense grew thicker.

Before full sight could be fully lost Deya, from behind her back, motioned for the gaggle-tacks to keep being passed to the surrounding guards.

“All this commotion and dedication to Gunmar.” Deya said distractingly to Stricklander. Hoping his eyes would stay on her instead of what the guards and soldiers were doing. “What has he done to deserve such treatment?”

Stricklander knew he was being bated, and yet the changeling needed to be just as distracting as Deya if Otto was to successfully steal the candle.

“The Skullcrusher is great, and should be followed. Why must trolls abandon the Olde Ways for the sake of fleshbags, and a mad hermit? Why should Troll Kind be forced underground when there is such a lot of world above?”

“ _We_ _are_ of the underground” needled Deya despite how unnerved she was feeling. This was perhaps the longest conversation with a changeling the Trollhunter has yet had.

“Maybe so.” straightened Stricklander, dagger relenting on Shuri’s throat. The youngling was nearly hyperventilating at this point, or was about to vomit. “Yet-“ he continued.

Deya lifted her arm and out of the fog was launched a rain of gaggle-tacks.

Stricklander snarled, yelping like a wounded hound when one hit him, painfully forcing the changeling to change. Shuri started crying harder than before. Begrudgingly the changeling used his leathery cloak to cover her.

He could hear the trolls circling in.

“Otto!”

“Here!” said Otto nearly getting struck in the arm as he morphed.

“The candle!” gasped Vendel noticing it in the polymorph’s hand.

Stricklander released Shuri meeting Otto half way.

“Can you still manage-?”

Otto’s answer came with Stricklander changing into his winged troll form. The wingspan beating outward with such a force part of the fog moved.

All it would take was one stray gaggle-tack during take off and they were both buggered.

Fortunately the sight of Stricklander was enough of a shock to stay a few hands. Even Deya gasped. Giving the changeling enough time to crouch, and take off upwards with a mighty beat of his wings.

Leaving behind Shuri, and the candle in their position.

“Bushigal.”

_So don’t ask where I’m going, just listen when I’m gone / And far away you’ll hear me singing softly to the Dawn_

Stricklander was rolling up his sleeves, a severe frown on his face. 

“Any word from Nomura, or Richard?”

The sound of snare drums echoed from the distance.

Stricklander and Leon were walking in an off shoot corridor within the changeling owned speakeasy House of Tutors. A name Stricklander felt particularly proud of. Usually followed with the motto written somewhere over the illegal bar, ‘When there’s somethings only liquor can teach you’.

The band’s drum solo was kicking up, it practically made the walls reverberate.

“None.” said Leon.

“Shite.” Stricklander grimaced.

“There may be a risk doing this here.” warned Leon. Peeping through the wall to the warm smokey glow on the other side. A good amount were civilians, a few paid off police officers, all open mouthed in awe of the drummer and their solo.

Stricklander took a final pull of his cigarette before dropping it on the ground. “Bugger it.” He gave it a good stamp and twist of the ball of his shoe before opening up the sliding cellar door.

“Mr. Luciano!” smiled Stricklander with an invented spring in his step, and chirp to his tune. “How kind of you to join us!”

Luciano, a dirty blonde human gentleman, already looking roughed up, was sitting in the middle of the room. Tied against his will.

“I didn’t have much choice.” spat the human. His mucous mixed with blood.

“Regrettable. I must say, too bad.” Stricklander sympathized, encroaching closer. “How’s your head?”

“My hea-?”

A cracking sound echoed in time to Stricklander’s delivered headbutt, and the distant chaotic drum solo the guests of the secretive House of Tutors were enjoying. Clapping, oblivious to Luciano’s strife.

“Spitting is rude, Luciano - I suggest you refrain from doing so in the future.” Stricklander continued in a kindly fashion over the human’s groans.

The changeling motioned for a table to be brought over. Leon obliged.

“You know what else is rude?” Stricklander picked and twisted Luciano’s ear, continuing, “Sabotaging not only my runners, but my futtocking product!!”

“I was just doing what I was told!”

“Oof! And a _fine_ excuse _that_ is!” Stricklander released Luciano’s now bleeding ear, “You’re going to live with these deeds, trust me.”

The changeling paced around himself, rubbing his mouth and chin in thought before whistling Enoch over with the pliers. 

Luciano did not feel lucky about those pliers.

“Time.” called Stricklander over his shoulder, slicing some of Luciano’s binding with a switch knife. His eyes inhumanly fixed on the human.

“Ten minutes.” said Leon.

Stricklander forced Luciano’s hand on to the table, “And look at that, _ten_ fingers.”

“N-no! No please!”

“SSshh it’s okay. I would like an explanation is all. Like,” Stricklander pinched Luciano’s chin, forcing the human to look at him rather than Enoch and the pliers. “Why Romano thinks it is okay to go back on our deal. When we made an arrangement.”

Enoch set the pliers read at the pinky finger.

“And arrangements should be honored. It’s just good business.” Stricklander explained, keeping the human’s head still with ease despite how his cheeks puffed and his face pulled to look away. Eyes bulging.

Enoch and Stricklander shared a look. Stricklander nodded.

Luciano yelled bloody murder.

“Does blowing my rum-runners to Kingdom Come sound like good business to you??!?!” Stricklander asked over the human’s screaming.

_Rivers belong where they can ramble/ Eagles belong where they can fly_

“Maybe we should get a union.” cracked a changeling. Their voice unintentionally echoing.

The few changelings next to her laughed nervously.

Nomura rolled her eyes, and started mentally counting. While, ironically, cursing the youth. It was already a tense week as it was. Didn’t Nikos know by now how to read a room?

“What was that?” Stricklander asked. A bitter, hardened coldness in his pleasantries.

The changelings disguised their laughter.

The owner of the quip was the last to realize Stricklander’s squinting gaze.

The smile dropped from Nikos’s face. It was like watching ice fall off from a glacier. Pleadingly she shook her head in a, _it wasn’t important_ , sort of way.

“No. Say that again, I don’t think I heard you.” It took Stricklander three paces exactly to cross the room. “Come on. What did you say? We all could go for a joke.” Stricklander waved to the surrounding crowd. Who knew better than to move now. “I know _I_ like a good joke.” he added. Like one who forgot what laughing in a crowd was like.

“May-maybe,” Nikos started, regretting every choice that brought her to this moment. Stricklander remorselessly rolled his hand in false encouragement as she stammered on. “maybe we should, ah, u-unionize.”

“U-u?” Stricklander placed a hand to his elephantine ear, “u-unionize! Unionize she says!” he condescendingly clapped his hands together, laughing as though it was the greatest comedy he had heard yet. “You hear that? _Unionize_! My goodness Can you _imagine_?”

The laughing went long enough for the changeling to feel a false sense of security.

Those Nomura’s age and older, weren’t fooled. Some felt pity, others wished the scene would end.

“Y-yeah, silly really.”

“It truly is!” Stricklander dabbed his eye, and released a sigh, “Shall you tell Bular? Or shall I?”

Nikos’s face felt like it fell through her stomach, to the core of the earth. “What?”

“I’m sure Bular will get a kick out of hearing this. Granted you’ll have to explain it first.” without warning Stricklander landed a solid punch across the changeling’s face. “Go on then. Spit-” he kicked her, “Spot.”

From there, ignoring pleads of protest, Stricklander started dragging the changeling across the room.

When Nikos kicked in objection Stricklander switched his grip from ankle to neck. Lugging the poor half-breed to a door.

Otto smiled while he watched. It took effort for Nomura not to roll her eyes. The remaining majority tried to stay as expressionless as possible.

“Don’t keep us waiting.” Stricklander threw the changeling the rest of the way. Her body inches from hitting the door. “Open it.” he ordered.

Nikos heaved for air, rubbing her neck and stammering to her feet. Hands jittering like a fall leaf. She wanted to vomit.

“We haven’t got all day!” barked Stricklander.

A little yelp escaped Nikos, cursing as she grabbed the doorknob. It was a 50/50 chance if Bular was really there. To all, but Stricklander.

She opened the door.

Bular wasn’t there. It was only an empty room.

The changeling, feeling like she lost 200 years of her life just then, dropped to her knees. Eyes prickling.

“Keep those jokes to your personal time. Or next time you really _will_ have to explain it to Bular.”

 _I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free/ Got to find my corner-!_

Stricklander looked down at the sleeping teen. Sleep laden baggy eyes. His mother was working the nightshift. Oblivious to the creature that stood in his room.

Thus, aside from the troll in the basement, and the changeling in his room, the Trollhunter was alone.

It would take nothing for the changeling to butcher the unaware Trollhunter. Roll up the body in the sheets, and carry it to be disposed of.

Since he knew where the linen closet was by now he could remake the bed with ease. As if the changeling was never there.

Make it look like Ji- the Trollhunter ran away.

Stricklander raised the blade, the higher it went, the shakier it became.

 _A clean cut_ , Stricklander told himself.

_A painless cut._

An eternal slumber.

_“Now as I go through the roster, please feel free to raise your hand and tell me if you’d like to be called something else instead.” explained Mr. Strickler to his new freshmen history students. Leaning against the front of his desk with a clipboard in hand, and patient expression on his face._

_He waited for a few mischievous giggles to subsidize before adding, “And please refrain from some toilet humor. I’d prefer to not recreate a Rowan Atkinson Dirty Names skit if I can help it.” blank stares looked back at the history teacher. Flipping back a paper on his clipboard Mr. Strickler added, “Feel free to look that up on your own time. It’s, well, very silly. Though a bit blue.” it had been a while since he watched the reference so to be sure he also added, “Parental Guidance advised. Right, so…Amanda Baggins?”_

_Thus the names went on, alphabetically. A few decided on nicknames, others wanting to stick to acronyms, and finally;_

_“James Lake Jr.?”_

_The youth raised his hand. Mr. Strickler lowered his clipboard and motioned a nod to respond._

_“Just, Jim, please.” said the teen with a seriousness that sounded as though he wished to lean away from the association of James as much as possible._

_Perhaps it was the way the teen slouched forward with heavy shoulders, or the bags under his eyes that crinkled with the little hopeful smile on his face. Either way, the changeling felt the smallest spark of sympathy for the human._

_With it, a want to add some humor to the situation. “Alright, ‘Just Jim’ it is then.”_

_The teen politely smiled, some found the joke genuinely funny, other students didn’t bother to hide their groans._

The traitorous hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Stricklander grasped the hilt with his other hand to assist the shaking to stop.

It didn’t help.

_“Jim?” asked a squeaky freshman, Eli, “You know that paper we turned in on Monday?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Turns out I had it with me after all! I just…couldn’t find it, and-” or rather he thought Steve had taken it for good. Eli bit his lip, and rubbed the side of his arm, “I’m kinda scared of trying to turn it in.” the teen slouched and adjusted his recently fixed glasses. “I mean…what if Mr. Strickler won’t take it? I doubt he’ll believe me…will he? Do you? Cause I totally did it! I just couldn’t find it…”_

_“Of course I believe you Eli! And, I’m sure he’ll believe you too, if you explain it.” Jim consoled._

_Their tones were hushed. Though not enough for the teacher to not overhear them. Regardless, Mr. Strickler kept to looking busy as his classroom slowly emptied itself._

_Eli shifted, doubtful in his capacity to explain coherently. “I-I don’t know.”_

_“C’mon Eli.” Jim glanced at the clock, and compassionately smiled, “Look I’ll stand there next to you, and if you need some explaining backup, I’ll be right there. How about it?”_

_“Uh-ah…okay.”_

_“Cool, cool, just give me a quick second.”_

_Jim collected his things, and Eli collected his courage- in time they approached the teacher’s desk._

_“Gentlemen!” straightened up Mr. Strickler, acting pleasantly surprised by the approach, “How may I help?”_

_The teens, Eli mostly, explained._

_Mr. Strickler nodded, and noted the anxiety and tremble in Eli’s voice - who braved to do what he earlier exclaimed to be afraid of._

_“I see, that is a mix up…would you say you learned from it?”_

_“Y-yes.”_

_“Then it’s a good thing we’re in a school, now, isn’t it?” Mr. Strickler grinned extending his and for the late lost paper. “I appreciate the effort to tell me Eli. And, yes, I’ll still accept it.”_

_Eli brightened and shot Jim a smile. Jim smiled a supportive; I told you!, in response._

_Handed the paper, Mr. Strickler didn’t entirely take it until saying, “Unfortunately it is still considered late, so I can’t give you the full credit.”_

_“Oh.” deflated Eli._

_“But” the teacher continued, leaning forward theatrically as if about to disclose the key to finding an ancient treasure. “If by the end of the week you bring me a few paragraphs about Ida B. Wells - well! I might be able to tack on a few extra points, hm? Nothing major, two or three paragraphs will suffice. Double points if you find a juicy detail the textbook didn’t cover.”_

_“Really?!”_

_The changeling smiled at the juvenile’s show of sentiment, and affirmed, “Really. Would you consider the terms fair?” Eli nodded, and Mr. Strickler extended his hand to shake on it. “Is it a deal?”_

_“Y-yeah! Erm, I mean, y-yes.” went Eli while shaking the teacher’s hand._

_“Grand. I look forward to it, Mr. Pepperjack.” Eli straightened his back smartly, adjusting his glasses, before returning to his usual slouch. Though there was a little spark in the teen’s eye._

_Mr. Strickler steepled his fingertips in a considering fashion, “You know, she was quite an extraordinary woman, a force of nature. It’s a shame our textbooks didn’t cover her enough.” the teacher shook his head, as though personally offended. Snapping back to the present he gave a kind smile to the pair of them. “Despite being more work, I do hope you enjoy learning more about her. Fascinating woman, Ida.”_

_Come Friday not only had Eli turned in a splendid five paragraph essay, but Jim as well- much to Mr. Strickler’s surprise._

_Jim explained that, although the assignment wasn’t doled out to him, he didn’t mind giving it a shot between cooking dinner, and waiting for his mom to come home._

_What stumped the changeling further, was the fact that this Mr. Lake didn’t expect any sort of extra credit to go with it._

_“I mean, it was Eli’s extra credit for his paper. I was just moral support.” Jim shrugged. “Anyways, see you Monday, Mr. Strickler!”_

_Dumbfounded, the teacher stood at his desk with an essay paper in each hand._

_“Yes, Monday, Mr. Lake.” the changeling stared out feeling the weight of his empty classroom. “Huh.”_

Stricklander’s hands still wouldn’t stop shaking. He screwed his eyes shut and exhaled harshly from his nose. Giving his head a shake, the changeling decided the blade wouldn’t do.

Blood could easily be avoided by mangling the boy- the Trollhunter’s neck. Like a goose ready to be cut down and plucked.

The room, the Trollhunter, and everything else, felt claustrophobically small in the agonizing minutes it took to put the dagger away, and step closer to the bed.

_“And um…yeah.” went Jim from the piano stool in his office. He mirrored Mr. Strickler by pressing his finger tips together and occasionally bounced them with nerves. “That’s the home life so far.”_

_“I see.”_

_“I really don’t mind it though! And my grades aren’t slipping.” Jim paused and winded his eyes, “Are they slipping? Oh gosh, is that what this is about?”_

_“No, no, they aren’t slipping.” Mr. Strickler assured for the second time. A chortle escaping him._

_“Oh, whew, okay- cool.” went Jim, leaning back and staggering slightly when he remembered there was no back support on the piano stool._

_“I was just concerned.” admitted the teacher, “Usually you ask more questions in class, rather good questions if I might be so bold to add.” Jim smiled pleased with himself. “And I couldn’t help notice a certain level of drowsiness that wasn’t there before.”_

_“What? When?”_

_“Oh, somewhere between the review of the Industrial Revolution, and the slight anecdote of the dangers of mining.”_

_Also known as the segment Jim slept through with his head propped and rested against his hand._

_Jim blushed ashamed. “Right.”_

_Patiently the changeling smiled, “It happens to the best, Mr. Lake. I just hope you remember to take care of yourself while helping others. After all, what happens to a steam engine when it runs out of steam?”_

_“It, ah-uh…stops?”_

_Mr. Strickler smiled, feeling his point was made. Jim braved a smile as well._

_Feeling the discussion over, the teen stood up collecting his bag, “Thanks for the talk, Mr. Strickler. I’ll, try to keep that in mind.”_

_“I certainly encourage you to.” nodded the teacher._

_Jim paused and smirked, returning to the steam engine metaphor, “If anything I’ll hydrate more. Maybe eat dinosaur chicken nuggets.”_

_“Ha! I see what you did there.”_

_“Enough for some extra credit?”_

_“I believe you’re pushing it, Mr. Lake.” Mr. Strickler warned, despite the smile on his face. “Besides, your grades are perfectly fine. I just hope they stay that way.”_

_“You and me both.” Jim admitted adjusting the strap of his news-carrier style school bag. He caught the patient cautionary look Mr. Strickler was giving him, and quickly added with a poignant array finger-guns, “And it will! Totally will!”_

_“Alright, alright.” Mr. Strickler chortled._

_On his way to the door, Jim stopped eyeing the placed out chessboard. He paused, and looked at it curiously._

_“Who are you playing this against, Mr. Strickler?”_

_The changeling tapped his dual use pen against his agenda. “Myself. It helps me organize my thoughts.”_

_“Oh…” went Jim, picking up the knight piece, examining the horse head._

_The teacher looked to the open door, then back to his pupil, unsure of the lingering that was happening. By all accounts their discussion was over. “Do you…play?” Mr. Strickler asked conversationally._

_“Nah. Checkers sure, but not chess.”_

_The teen continued to linger. Placing the knight back on the board, albeit the wrong square, and picking up the sturdy rook._

_Mr. Strickler tapped the pen to his temple, and went to twirl it as if it were the moving manifestation of his thoughts processing what to do._

_“Would you…like to learn?”_

_Jim turned where he stood, giving a wide eyed smile._

Stricklander froze where he stood, as Ji-the Trollhunter turned in his sleep. His once open reaching hands balled into shaking fists. In all his long life, after all the cruelness Stricklander had steeled himself for, and had doled out.

Giselle’s own words came to mind from when his mind was fumed, ‘ _Kill the cricket_ ’.

He should. Ridding the nausea of this whole Trollhunter business and pick up a ghost to haunt his conscience evermore.

All in one.

Though, what would have happened if Pinocchio didn’t kill the talking cricket in that abandoned house?

Stricklander’s hands were clammier than a dead fish. His stomach felt tied in knots with spikes in them.

Why was it that he just couldn’t bring himself to do the deed?

_“Hey, thanks for the advice. I like talking to you.”_

_“Always.”_

He knew the heart twisting answer.

Strickler gave a defeated slouch, all intent abandoned and fleeing. Hands falling limp at his sides, Strickler returned to the rooftop, leaving Jim to sleep through the night. To see another day. Unaware of the monster that slunk in and out of his room.

Strickler would sit there on the Lake House roof, head low, mortified, wiping his eyes with his still shaking hands. The night air chilling.

The heavens felt particularly heavy that night.

 _!-of the sky._

 

Etude Op.25 No.11 ‘Winter Wind’

 

          Trollmarket

 

Toby was ingesting as much wild knowledge as possible, and as the bottle of Elix-lore said, at a definite “voracious pace”. That is to say, literal words filled with knowledge floated into Toby’s mouth. Leaving a light glow inside, as if he ate some sort of illuminating blue slushy that stained the insides of his mouth.

Jim was bouncing from book to book enabling the search for knowledge and the search to find a way to get Strickler’s ring off of him. Which was certainly entertaining for a small amount of time.

At least until Toby slowly started to become more of a Lovecraftian knowledge god, (minus the racist undertones and fear of the new), and less of a quick read cheat sheet.

“The great Warg age enters the seventh blood moon.” said Toby, voice distorted and eyes shifting as if reading some unseeable script.

Jim, helplessly on a pile of books nearby, gawked as his friend continued.

“The Draknagoth will arise!” Toby’s eyes momentarily crossed, a burp escaping him. Quickly he plucked at the character that came out of his mouth and put it back in with a simple, “Nope.”

Jim still remained silent.

“The parallels of the universe! All its answers have become so clear!” Toby went to make dual coin like gestures with his hands. “It’s all one coin, but different sides!! And the realms between, on the groove!” proclaimed Toby, reaching out to shake Jim by the shoulder. “A multitude of realms, from the Darklands to the Shadow Realm.” Dramatically Toby made an arch with his hand, “There is a land on the horizon, it shimmers like this one. Of mist and mirrors! Alike, but different!”

“Oh boy.” Jim managed to say, starting to wonder if his friend was truly gone to the knowledge of Blinky’s library.

“The ghost snake will travel forward as the bat will travel back. This will be the cycle of things. Alak! The gods do battle and we must hold tight. The hermit seeks to use the maid, and the maid is not a maid.”

Jim let his head limply fall back with a groan, “Got anything Shigir related while you’re there?” 

Toby’s hands danced side to side in a slight tempo. With a distorted voice he singsonged, “~The villainous thief Ligir-“

“I said Shigir, not Ligir!”

“ -messenger of the Eldritch Queen. His lies are not to be believed - so keep your kids close and clean~ So ooooo better beware! Ooooo Ligir is out there~! Lurking in the light to snatch your young from sight~!”

“ _Yikes_. What book did you get _that_ from?” cringed Jim. His eyes then quickly widened, “Wait. No really, what book is that from?”

As wrong as the nursery rhyme sounded, it was the closest thing to a documented account of the folk hero Jim had heard in Trollmarket. Even if the _barest_ of ties was the name sounding moderately the same.

Such can be said to be the duality of all stories. One person’s hero is another’s villain.

The same, if Jim remembered his lessons right from class, could be said about history.

It wasn’t uncommon for waring sides to make villainous sounding songs about the competing side.

For the briefest moments, Jim thought about how proud his history teacher would be to hear he was remembering to use such lessons practically.

Such a thought didn’t last very long when upon moving and getting better footing on the pile of books, Jim’s side started to hurt. A lingering injury from his run in with Angor Rot.

Jim’s smile slowly faded to a bitter scowl. Clicking his tongue and remembering the teacher he thought he had, was no more than a lie.

Everything about Strickler was a lie. A traitorous backstabbing, assassin sending, liar. How could he have ever thought the person to be father like?

Toby got to his knees, arms high over his head with excitement, “The secret of life! IS-” Toby’s stomach lurched as before. The teen turning a shade paler than before.

“42.” snarked Jim, frisbeeing a book away from himself.

The scowl melted to concern when he heard Toby’s stomach lurch again, a little louder.

Jim braced for impact, as the word vomiting commenced.

 

          After Party, the Nuñez's

 

Claire was half way up the stairs when she changed her mind. She hadn’t eaten, and the idea of watching youtube clips alone while NotEnrique cleaned didn’t sit as well as before. She was going to stay up late with Darci and Mary anyways.

Staring into her real brother’s baby picture Claire Nuñez sighed, and turned around.

“Actually.” she said, peaking her head from around the corner, “I _could_ give you a hand. Even if this was primarily your fault.” she made sure to add.

KnotEnrique’s ears twitched upward and downward with the inflections of Claire’s tone.

“You’re so generous.” the diapered changeling quipped.

“ _And_ we could order pizza afterwards, or see what’s open on Grubhub.” Claire continued, ignoring the quip, “How does that sound, NotEnrique?”

“Yeah…yeah! I could be down with that.”

Claire smiled and shifted the coffee table. Wincing at the scuffs on the floor she’ll have to explain.

“Um…Sis?” piped up the changeling tentatively. His stomach a bundle of nerves. “I was wonderin’ if, ah…”

Claire stopped dusting a pillow and stilled. “Yeah?”

“When you call me,” KnotEnrique’s hands fidgeted with a lace doily, “wut you’ve been calling me- could you, ah, imagine saying it with a ‘k’?”

Claire slowly placed the pillow down, quisitive. Unsure if she was following correctly. “Put a ‘k’ in front of ‘Little Monster’?” she half joked.

KnotEnrique’s ears quivered some, “That’s the name you associates me with?”

It was the tiniest waver in KnotEnrique’s voice that told Claire the changeling was being serious.

“No! No! That was - ugh” she pressed a fist against her forehead, “A joke. A really bad joke.” Claire lowered her hand away apologetically, “I’m Sorry.” the half-breed’s ears raised slightly, “So a ‘k’ in front of NotEnrique?”

KnotEnrique nodded. “I don’t want a name after everything I’m not - like I need a name to help remember _that_.”

Claire rubbed her arm, feeling truly guilty about the nickname for the first time.

She bit her lip, and placed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Even though it sounds the same?” she cautiously asked. “I mean!! I totally will-do - do you want the ‘K’ pronounced? I can do that too.”

The changeling smiled, appreciating the effort. “Nah, don’t pronounce it ‘k’, _feel_ the ‘k’. After all I feel a knotted ol’ mess not a KUH-knotted ol’ mess.” he laughed.

Claire smiled. “Cool.” her face warming as the idea set in more. “Yeah, you got it, _K_ notEnrique.”

The changeling smiled so wide he felt like crying, instead, he did an electric air-guitar motion, “Sick.”

A kind warmth filled the living room as the pair of them went back to cleaning. Idle chatter would follow, a suggestion to listen to music while they cleaned.

“Perhaps not pizza, but ordered in burgers from Eat That BÜrger?”

“Why did they choose the ‘u’ like that? I don’t even think it’s right.” went KnotEnrique, looking upside-down at Claire’s laptop screen.

Claire shrugged, “Cause it looks like a smiley face?”

KnotEnrique balanced himself on one arm, and tilted his head to the side, “Huh - you ain’t wrong.”

“They’re supposed to be, like the next In N Out, but” she shrugged again. The crooning vocals of Brendon Urie floating in the background, “It’s worth a shot to find out. More guac?”

“Can I stick me sock in it?”

“Hard no.”

“Then pass.”

Claire rolled her eyes, picked up a chip to scoop out some of her home made special guacamole, and spread it on the sock. “Try it. I just don’t want the main source to start tasting like bunions.”

“It’s already got onions!” cracked KnotEnrique who slurped the sock in one gulp. “Mmm! Not bad.”

“Heck yeah it isn’t bad.” Claire said proudly dipping a chip in the guacamole.

KnotEnrique started to cough some as the spice kicked in at the back of his throat - “Oooeee gets yeah good!”

Claire hummed happily. Brows wiggling as she chewed.

“So how long till the food’s here?”

“Like an hour.”

KnotEnrique scooped more guacamole to spread onto another sock nodding. “Wanna learn some trollish swearwords?”

“Like bushigal?”

The changeling slurped up the sock in one go. Bits of avocado lined his teeth as he grinned mischievously wide. “Better.”

 

          Post World War II, Trentino

 

September was full of crisp air and bright colors. The sound of bakeries getting their usual morning customers. Bells echoing through the vias, marking the time.

Otto didn’t keep track. But the sound of the bells was lovely and distracting enough to ignore the rumble of American tanks and jeeps relocating from one side of the hill, to the other.

Otto flicked open his zippo, and inhaled his cigarette to life as he walked over to a corner side vendor of hazelnuts and chestnuts.

The vendor, was positioned before a boarded up building. Which at some point had less holes and a steadier wall to it.

The vendor and Otto greeted one another, and the changeling made sure his Italian didn’t sound perfect. Rather, slurring, with the ‘r’ hard to roll, and round tones. Fitting the persona he was impersonating, with hair dyed less blonde. Looking the part of an American on leave.

“I didn’t think you’d see me.” came a voice to Otto’s right.

A blonde changeling donning the red cross jeep driver’s uniform.

Otto kept the irony of the uniform to himself, considering where the Order stationed Krax during the war.

“Good morning to you.” Otto said, always one for formalities. He pointed at the chestnuts for the vendor to start roasting. “Hazelnuts or Chestnuts, I’m offering.”

“I-ah.” Krax paused, derailed. A look of undeserving on his face.

However, despite feeling undeserving, the age old instinct of taking food and nourishment when freely given was stronger.

“Ch, chestnuts.” Krax mumbled.

“What?”

“No, ah, Ha-hazelnuts.” Krax added a point that even the vendor understood. “So, about my def-“

“We’ll talk over coffee.” interrupted Otto, balancing his cigarette on his lip while he patted himself for lire. “Perfect hiking weather, don’t you agree?” Otto asked from the side of his mouth as he swapped lire for the roasted goods.

Krax squinted, decoding the statement. “Should we hike to talk about this?”

“What? No! I want coffee.”

“Oh.”

“Was only being conversational.” Otto explained, reaching to take Krax’s roasted Hazelnuts. “Ah, grazie.”

“Ah lei signore.” the vendor responded from a sun wrinkled face.

A jeeps exhaust backfiring echoed a street over, and sent Krax ducking. The vendor, also started to duck with a slight delayed response. Not having fully registered the sound, but going off the reaction Krax gave.

Otto however, stayed perfectly calm. Owlishly blinking around in more of a look of curiosity than concern. A few others on the via looked skywards, or hid behind the archways that lead to giant portones.

Otto handed Krax his roasted Hazelnuts when he felt calm enough to stand back up again.

Neither of them mentioned what had happened.

They walked in silence munching on their respective roasted nuts, until stopping at the second cafe they came across.

Otto suggested a table outside, Krax complied through a mouthful of hazelnuts.

After ordering an espresso and a caffe macchiato, and Otto asking the waitress about the local dairy farms, Otto leaned back in his chair.

“So.” he said, adjusting his glasses with his palm. “What’s this I hear about you wanting to defect?”

“I, I can’t take this kind of life anymore.”

Otto looked at Krax from over his glasses. It was a statement the polymorph has heard before. Every changeling thinks it at one point or another. Though a statement with dangerous repercussions if heard by the wrong people.

“I hope you have something more than _that_ to consider such a treasonous idea of just, letting you walk away.”

“I’m fraying at the seems, Otto.”

“We’re all fraying. The world’s fraying.”

“Otto.” Krax said at a dangerous level that caught the polymorph off guard. “Either you listen to me fully - or I’ll find my own way out.” The changeling held his expression with firm resolve. Not unlike a wounded animal.

A thick silence fell, as neither of the inhuman creatures took their eyes off the other.

A lackluster, “Thank you / Grazie.” fell out when their drinks arrived.

Otto, at last, sighed into his palm, and gestured Krax to continue.

The changeling exhaled relief, rubbing thumb and forefingers as he spoke, “I can’t be part of the Order anymore. I can’t be part of - of this _policy_. It’s not even about Bular, or the Gumm-Gumms or how they treat us. That’s something that’ll never change. Though for all we know Gunmar, in all his glory, will stay eternally in the Darklands. It’s the human policy.

“This, having changelings on all sides of a situation so no matter what side wins - we win. This lack of interfering, no matter what they do.” Krax’s eyes prickled, laughing bitterly at the sky. “Who cares what they do to each other, right? It’s just less humans we’ll have to deal with.”

Krax went to run a hand through his hair, and stopped. Staring at his hand - and an unseeable stain of blood.

The changeling leaned forward, gaping at Otto with haunted eyes. “They’re monsters Otto. _They are_ the monsters. The things they do to each other. It’s -” The words lay thick in his tight throat. But none came.

Otto’s own head lowered. Remembering his time in the prison before the war. Slowly, the polymorph nodded his head.

“The worst part was knowing I could’ve done _something_ \- should’ve - the right head, the right snap. Instead, the most I did was look the other way. We wouldn’t have to have waited for the Americans to _finally_ show up if I — I’d.” Krax’s tears fell into his untouched macchiato.

Otto knocked back his espresso, embracing the strong bitterness.

Krax rubbed his eyes, staring ahead fiercely. “If more people didn’t look away. If more people stepped forward - if I could have been one of those people-“

“Getting involved is dangerous and tricky. Let things run their course without getting too much in the way.” Otto spread his hands, “We are not to intervene, we’re guests in their world - until we make it ours.”

“You sound like Stricklander.”

“Obviously I don’t mean-“

“Yeah, yeah - no one does - not even him.” Krax interrupted dejectedly. Frowning and thinking of all the pretty speeches Stricklander tried to feed them through the years. Yet still nothing was done for changelings. It didn’t feel like much _had_ changed since that fateful winter.

Though, change can be hard to spot, when slow moving and gradual.

“Regardless,” continued Krax, returning to the topic at hand, “Being involved can’t be unavoidable. If you could turn back the clock, if you knew it’d get you sent to that prison, wouldn’t you still want to go to those meetings? The talks? The conversations with Brecht?”

“We all have our vices.” Otto dodged.

“This isn’t about vice - it’s about doing what’s _right_.”

Otto shifted the empty espresso cup and under-plate to the side so he could lean forward on the table.

“Just hurry up - what exactly are you offering? What exactly is this meeting?” Otto’s hands itched.

“I want out Otto. Out of the Order. Out of my obligations. To be considered dead to our half-breed kind, to troll kind.” Krax pulled from his pocket a hefty rock wrapped in cloth the size of a small plate. “But I don’t have to be dead to _you_.” Otto’s eyes bulged at the rock, and what Krax was implying “I’ll owe you. Be in your favor - as long as you let me go and do as I please.”

Otto ogled at the rock. He didn’t have to unwrap it to know it was a bridge piece. The polymorph swallowed.

“What do you plan to do with yourself? As a ‘freed’ defector.” Otto asked. Krax’s requested answered as the polymorph reached for the rock. Mind swirling with what opportunities this could mean. To have a secret ace up his sleeve all of his own.

“There are whispers, members of the third reich fleeing to Argentina.” Krax finally picked up his macchiato. “It’s been a while since I’ve eaten human flesh. But they’ll meet an end, one way or another.”

Otto licked his lips as lions do. “A most dangerous game.”

“I could see you get a pound or four if you do one more thing for me.”

“More than treason?” The polymorph chuckled. Who was more than capable of getting his own human meat if he truly wanted it.

“It’s a small thing - really. I’ll be more in your debt than I am already.” Krax pleaded with hands together.

“What is it?”

“Look after my parrot for me?”

Otto threw his head back with a laugh, the two changelings shook hands, and thus Krax the Nazi Eater came to fruition. For a price.

 

          Present, The Nuñez’s

 

“Pendejo.”

“Pendejo.”

“Nonono, _pendejo_.”

“Pendejo.”

“Okay so you know what you said to me when I said Ozzca?”

KnotEnrique chuckled, nibbling into an empty bag of fries. “Yeah, gotta open your mouth more.”

“Ah-huh, do the opposite. Pendejo.”

“Pendejo.”

“Closer. One more. And without the bag in your mouth ya dingus! Pendejo.”

“ _Pendejo_.”

“Oh snap.” Claire reeled back.

“Wut? Did I say it right? _Pendejo_.”

“No..you, said it perfectly that time, _and_ now. I just, ah, wasn’t ready.”

“¡ _Pendejo_!” KnotEnrique cackled triumphantly along with the crinkles of the empty french fry bag. Balling it up so he could launch it in the air to catch and eat. “¡Es porque soy genial!”

“Okay this is a little spooky. You’re even starting to say the ’s’ like my dad. Like that accent of yours just… _vanishes_!” Claire leaned forward exceptionally intrigued. “Like…like a parrot!” she moved her empty wrappers to the coffee table and shifted closer. Crossing her legs and pulling her knees close. “Are changelings good at languages?”

“supongo que sí.” shrugged KnotEnrique, beating his chest to let out a hearty satisfied burp. “After all, I’d have to learn as your brother would.”

“What about other languages?” Claire strummed her fingers against her chin, “Is there like a..an, age thing? What’s it called, threshold? Not sure threshold is the word I’m looking for. Oh. this is going to bug me…” Claire picked up her cellphone typing as she talked, “Like, the brain is perceptive at learning language at a young age, but that bracket of learning language is between a certain number of years, after passing that year it gets harder to learn new languages - you know?”

“I don’t.”

“¡Pendejo!” Claire chucked the phone over her shoulder and slouched into the couch.

“As in, I don’t think changelings have that problem? From how I understands it, we’re pretty good at language and the manipulation of vocal chords. Though silver tongued as we are, we do still get lists of languages we’re suggested to learn- especially if they’re dead. That’s how it was explained to me. Though my briefing topside was, erm - _brief_.”

Claire’s eyes widened with further curiosities. Her mind filling with questions, and abandoning the want to find the word she earlier forgot.

“You get briefed?”

“Well _yeah_. Topside and the Darklands are two _totally_ different lifestyles.”

“Who briefed you? How did that happen? When did it happen?”

“Whoa! Whoa! Easy there sis!” squirmed KnotEnrique crawling to the top of the couch.“Don’t start interrogatin’ me. It was a rushed job, considering the whole Trollhunting thing. And you kids finding me out so soon!”

“When do people usually find out?” Claire asked crossing her arms.

“Hopefully…never.” admitted KnotEnrique, scratching the side of his underbite. “I mean…have you ever heard of changelings before? Aside from the fake tellie stories. Though I’ve been told the yellow journalism makes some good cover up stories.”

“What cover up stories?”

“Exactly.”

“Um, okay…then who?”

“Who do you think? The Bossman.” chortled KnotEnrique holding his feet as he swayed on his rump.

“Strickler was in my house?!”

“No! I snuck out. It happened at the museum when Bular was busy. Nasty brute that one.” KnotEnrique shivered remembering the smell that used to linger around the troll. It always gave the young changeling such an impression. “We didn’t get into too much. The purple lady was there too.”

“Who?”

“Tall one who whistles. You’ve met.”

“ _Oh_.” said Claire remembering the night Jim came clean about everything, and risked his life to save her. 

“They went on about how life Topside is different. Can’t act out, should remember me age. List of human requirements. Don’t get caught. Do as I’m told. Don’t think too hard about stuff.”

“Stuff? What kind of stuff?”

“You know, _stuff_ stuff.” KnotEnrique emphasized with a heavy like gesture. It made the diapered changeling look like a puppet without strings. Or a blanket left out to dry in the wind.

Claire bit her lip and shook her head, still not entirely getting KnotEnrique’s gist.

“‘ _Who am I?_ ’ Sort of stuff. I mean I’ve a whole new identity to embody Topside. There’s a whole folder full of stuff. Why do you think I keep using the diaper?”

“Cause you’re a gross meanie.”

“Parent’s get suspicious if a baby ain’t poopin’ themselves.”

“We’d be saving so much money on diapers! Like, diapers alone! AND baby food. I thought you’d like gross mush.”

“The fact there’s little to chew really unnerves me uvula.”

Claire made a face.

“And come tax time they’ll get suspicious. Next thing the parents start asking questions, like; ’Why isn’t the cost of keepin’ this baby the same as keepin’ other babies?’”

“You’re thinking about taxes?!”

“No one messes with the IRS, not even a secret spy organization.”

“What the WHAT now?!”

“The Bossman says it all the time. ‘If they could stop Al Capone they could stop us’. Personally, I think he’s paranoid. It’s all in the folder…at least the bits I didn’t eat.” KnotEnrique admitted while using one of his claws as a toothpick. “I figure I got this baby stuff in the _bag_ anyhow. And since I’m not playing for their team anymores I can learn how to be a human kid at the same time as any other human kid, _easy peasy_. Least that’s how it used to be done.”

“How do you know?”

“Less iphones back then.” Cracked KnotEnrique giving a deep bellied laugh. “Bit hard to connect without one, innit?”

Claire scrounged up a laugh and scratched her neck. “Heh, yeah I suppose you’re right.” The thought of which made he remember a question Toby asked earlier that day, “Do changelings even sleep?”

“Wut kind of question is that? Uh, _Yeah_! Do farts stink?”

“Huh,” Claire reached behind her for her phone, “interesting.” she said as she blindly typed something that read along the lines of, ‘changleing to sleep.’ Typos included.

“Everyone’s gotta sleep sometime. I mean in troll form it isn’t as mandatory, but it can catch up you, especially in human form.”

“Is that why you always get drowsy when you baby up?”

“Well, _yeah_ \- cuz I’m still a baby. And with all that physically means.”

“Then how does your human age not get in the way of your troll age?”

KnotEnrique guiltily strummed his fingers on the couch, and became very interested in the fabric. “I think I ate that bit in me folder.”

“You really are a baby,” Claire said into her hands, “you have like, _zero_ impulse control.”

“Hey! I’m learnin’ ain’t I?”

“Ppff alright, Mr. Sultan of Swagger. How’s your object permanence?”

“Oi!”

“No no no, Dark Prince of _Partypalooza_.”

“That’s _Mr_. Dark Prince of Partypalooza to you, sister. I earned that title all on me own, unlike a certain Queen Death Viper 5000 of the Shadow Realm.”

“Oh I’d say I earned that too.” smirked Claire as she pulled the shadow staff from her back pocket. It clicked and snapped to it’s full length.

KnotEnrique ogled, jaw slowly dropping. The hairs of his scruff bristling being so close to an artifact of the Pale Lady’s. Slowly he found himself wanting to reach out and touch it. A singular, “Wow.” escaping the changeling.

“Yeah, it’s no biggie. And it’s just ShadowDancer. The whole Queen Death Viper is, ah, benched - for now.”

“For now.” nodded KnotEnrique, not bothering to hide his grin.

Claire, closed up the shadow staff, and returned it to her back pocket. “So, how did you become the ‘life of the party’ in the Darklands? Isn’t it all…dark and grim?”

KnotEnrique started to do tumbles and one armed pushups as he spoke, “Well, the Darklands is surprisingly bright- with lots ‘o bioluminescence. Glowing moss, the stalactites that pulse like distant beacons. Me an ah, Paluckie-“

Paluckie?” Claire repeated, enjoying the sound of the name.

“Yeh - it’s what he called himself. ‘Cause they was always plucky…or was it because they was pretty lucky?” Knot Enrique frowned, eyes shifting with growing concern.

“So what did you and Paluckie do in the Darklands?” Claire asked, bringing the changeling back to the present.

“Oh loads! We’d get into mischief where we stayed at the rookery. That’s where changelings are kept to ‘mature’ while staying immature hehe, and be ready to pair with a familiar. Well it’s not so much mature mature, we’re kept small - dimensionally pocket sized and youthful.” the changeling demonstrated by peeking through his index finger and thumb. As if it were an impromptu fetch. “Like that one movie with the flying kid.”

“Peter Pan?”

“Sure - yeah.”

“How?”

“Uuuh..” the changeling scratched his chin with his foot while still balancing himself on one arm, “Search me. A magic of some sorts is me best guest.”

“Oh….so the rookery is like Neverland, okay, and you-“

“Well it’s loads more fun than that place! We’d…we…” the concern cam back on the changeling’s face. All his memories of the rookery felt abstract and distant. Like another lifetime.

Granted he hadn’t thought of the Darklands very much since coming Topside, but he always assumed the rookery wasn’t a place one just up and forgot. Not after all that time spent there.

The more KnotEnrique tried to figure out why remembering was getting harder and harder, the more the half-breed started to feel frustrated. Not understanding why.

He tried to fight against it. “We could throw parties as long as we stayed in our area. I mean - we weren’t allowed to really explore the Darklands - but we did anyways. What’s important is not to get caught, heh heh.”

“Was there someone who reprimanded you?”

“Oh yeah! Sure there was! This one time-” the changeling laughed, but remembered more the sensation of being beaten more so than the amusing instance that lead up to getting caught. It felt like a vague idea. Like trying to remember your favorite joke but forgetting the set up, and the punchline really hurting. His smirk started to wane. “Well, it’s not important.” KnotEnrique half heartedly tried to laugh off.

The look of concern sprouting on Claire’s face wasn’t helping matters. He felt pitied. KnotEnrique loathed that.

“So anyways.” he said trying to get back on track, “We changelings are stuck in the rookery until we’re paired off with a familiar. Which doesn’t happen right away - obviously.”

Claire’s face slacked uncrossing her legs with realization, “Wait wait, so when you said you were a couple of centuries old - does that mean you’ve been in the Darklands waiting for _centuries_?” It felt like such a long time in compared to human years.

“Oh I’d say I was pretty lucky, there’s some who’ve waited longer. Gotta remember there’s a difference in troll years and human ones. I think it also depends on when they nab yah.” Claire’s face crinkled, KnotEnrique clarified, “Steal us from our real parents. Everyone’s…got real parents, somewhere.”

“Oh.” she said softly. “I’m…I’m sorry KnotEnrique.”

“Yeah - it’s not a win for anyone involved.” the changeling watched as Claire tried to process this information. His ears drooping slightly. Crawling closer KnotEnrique placed his claw over Claire’s hand. Adding awkwardly, “Extended family including.”

The teen braved a smile, and nodded. Thumbing the changeling’s claw in return. “Do you remember your parents?”

KnotEnrique’s ears drooped flat to his head. For the first time, the giant bundle of energy for a creature si small looked exactly that; small.

Claire felt at a loss of what to say. All she could think of was another pathetic, “I’m so sorry KnotEnrique.” she extended her arms in an open gesture, “Would you, like a hug?”

The changeling looked up at her, tempted. Heart fluttering at the idea of feeling what an embrace would be like outside the obligatory realm of being coddled for being a human baby.

“I, ah, I dunno.” KnotEnrique tried to underplay. Removing his claw to rub his arm.

Claire shifted herself forward, arms still outreached.

Terribly tempted the little changeling sighed. Then quickly bristled with an afterthought, “It’s not for pity is it?”

“No.” Claire assured.

KnotEnrique side eyed her, looked down, and, chosen to believe her, stepped into Claire’s outstretched arms.

She hugged him close, and tight. A shaky sigh releasing when Claire rubbed his back and ran her fingers like a comb through his scruff.

KnotEnrique, slowly smiled. They sat like that in the quiet house for a small while.

“I’m sorry.” She tried to console.

KnotEnrique furrowed his brow, heart rate picking up again. As if having to backpedal quick to being defensive again. “Stop saying that.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yeah. It ain’t no ones fault. It’s not like I didn’t have a fun time - a time there-“ the changeling pushed Claire away a little rougher than necessary. “I was the life ‘o the party!”

“I never meant-“

“-Me and Paluckie! Against the Darklands! Gamblin’ and fighting all around us - picking up moss and sneaking off into _more_ trouble.”

“Are you sure this was like Neverland and not like that donkey place in Pinocchio?”

“You callin’ us pack mules now?!” started up the changeling in a burst of misplaced anger. “We did more than just sit around like cattle! We- we-“ but the more KnotEnrique tried to remember the foggier his mental image of the rookery became.

He remembered the Darklands fine, but soon even the secret ways to get back to the rookery was starting to feel lost to him. The rookery itself more like a mental idea, than a place that actually existed. As if his time in the Darklands was spent inside an M. C. Escher painting.

He started to breath heavy.

“KnotEnrique are you-?”

“I had another name!!” yelled the changeling distraught.

Jumping to the wall to climb around. He moved in a pattern that was similar to how bees try to dance directions to other bees. “I-I remember!!”

“O-okay you remember.” agreed Claire helplessly. Feeling very much out of her element. “You and Paluckie against the Darklands.”

“I know what I said!!” KnotEnrique kicked the lamp in frustration and jumped to throw a hanged picture at Claire. “I said I _remember_!!”

“I believe you.”

“Do you now?! You believe me and my _awful existence_?!” Claire

winced as he used her own words against her. “What’s your aim?! That’s awfully convenient now innit?!”

“There’s no aim- I’m worried.” The changeling jumped onto the curtains tearing them down. He got lost into the folds and started eating and tearing them apart. “You’re worrying me.”

She was past worrying. As KnotEnrique gave a spectacular impression of the Tasmanian Devil, Claire retrieved her phone and started calling Jim. “Cmon, please pick up.”

The red dots on the changeling’s phone case pulsed ever so slightly.

KnotEnrique continued to repeat, “I remember!” in the background.

Except, he didn’t. At an alarming rate KnotEnrique was realizing he couldn’t remember as much as he thought he did. It felt like a horrid affront to himself and the other changelings he left behind - still waiting to go Topside. Waiting, for that final painful step in the changeling process.

 

           Janus Order

 

Johnson jumped from his desk as his ipad started beeping. He certainly _wasn’t_ sleeping on the job. Not that the marks on his face that looked like the creases of his sleeve would help him in any debate.

Regardless, the changeling’s cheeks warbled as he attempted to simultaneously check his beeping ipad and comb his hair to the side.

The screen was blinking with a red banner, flashing;

“Code Cat’s Cradle”

Johnson nearly lost the ipad as he flew out of his seat. Hurriedly putting order to his desk, and locking stacks of documents and files he wouldn’t want viewed while he was away. All while repeating aloud, “Code Cat’s Cradle! Code Cat’s Cradle! Code Cat’s Cradle!”

The changeling fumbled with his keys to lock the office, then quickly cursed himself as he forgot the beeping ipad in the process.

Shakily he reopened the door, retrieved the ipad, and scrambled down the halls of the Order.

By the time Johnson arrived to the main IT office, he was out of breath and desperate to get his hair combed to one side as he spoke, “Code Cat’s Cradle, is it…is it legit?”

A few changelings in black masks leaned from their desks, a changeling in their human woman form jolted from her seat to inspect what Johnson was pointing to.

She clicked her tongue. “Shit.”

There was nothing faulty with the ipad, and almost as if on cue the monitors of the IT office also had the same red banner notifying Code Cat’s Cradle.

The sound of quick tick tack clacks of keyboard typing followed.

 

          The Nuñez’s

 

Jim was fending off and batting away any and all items KnotEnrique was launching at him.

“Well what do you think Blinky?” called the Trollhunter.

“I believe I may be a little out of my element.” the troll admitted, as the changeling started to push over the china cabinet. Aargh was able to catch it at the nick of time, even able to catch a few hand painted plates in the process.

“Abuela’s plates!” gasped Claire shock and relief washing over her, “We _just_ cleaned this place!!” she snapped. Angrily Claire quickly went back to toweling guacamole from her hair.

“Isn’t there some kind of sleep spell?” Toby asked again a little louder over the clatter of books being tipped.

“That’s why I brought the herbs.” waved Blinky, cattails and dried lavender in his hand.

“Try it again Blinky!”

Helplessly Blinky clumsily shook the bushel of herbs. It’d have been easier if the troll wasn’t so concerned with getting in Claire’s way.

She’d follow behind KnotEnrique trying to rectify the changeling’s trail of disaster. The guac stained towel bouncing around her neck.

“I’ve never had to handle the young.” Blinky admitted as he attempted yet again to swipe and rub KnotEnrique’s nose with the cattails and dried lavender. “Or maybe it’s the lack of camomile.” he added aside.

“He’s _centuries_ old!” declared a frustrated Claire.

“Yes well, be that as it may, NotEnrique’s philology-” Blinky dodged a cause that was launched his way, behind the troll Jim jumped to catch it in time. “ _is_ that of a youngling.” Blinky reminded.

“Then why didn’t the cattails and songs work?” asked Toby eyeing the changeling who, with upper body strength alone, clambered the ceiling.

“Perhaps they’re solely troll things?” Blinky pointed, a piece of lavender falling off in the process.

“Aargh?” called Jim while jumping for the changeling.

Aargh was trying with great difficulty to place the small little plates, with his large hands, back into the china cabinet. A tongue sticking out to the side for added concentration. “Know anything about changeling kids?”

The former Gumm-Gumm general shook his head no, looking at Jim through the glass reflection. “Sorry. They showed up older.”

Without looking Aargh was able to catch Blinky from tripping through the doorway with his arm.

“Ah, thank you old friend.”

“You still drowsy?” asked Aargh looking down.

Blinky covered his mouth with the dried herbs, blocking the kids from reading his hips or hearing him admit, “Frankly? Yes. A power nap a full sleep does not make.”

Aargh placed the last of the hand painted plates in the cabinet and turned to give Blinky his full attention. In the background Toby yelped something to Claire and a crash of pots and pans were heard. Aargh considered his sleep deprived companion. Running his thumb over Blinky’s fleshy cheeks, a fond toothy smile forming.

“I take Blinky now. He get full sleep.” Aargh announced.

“Wha? What, but we’re in kind of a crises!” Jim motioned to demonstrate the thrice ruined Nuñez house.

“A crises who’s getting away!” Toby called, pointing to the changeling who was now scurrying upstairs.

“Dude!” complained Jim.

“I’m sorry Master Jim, but I fear I’ll only get in the way.”

Jim looked to the stairs, then to the still drowsy Blinky. “No it’s, it’s okay.” scratching his he said, as though unwinding to admit the words himself, “Engines gotta have steam to run.”

“I believe your locomotives are more electric these days - but I do appreciate the understanding.”

Jim smiled and patted Blinky’s shoulder. “Rest well Blinky.” the teen added a little farewell wave to Aargh, as well as winced at the loud thump noise from upstairs.

“Good grief.” said Jim, bounding to the stairs.

“Oh Jim!” called Blinky, patting Aargh’s arm to hold on a moment.

Jim caught himself on the railing and leaned back.

“As troll youngling conventions didn’t seem to work, why not try to appeal to his other conventions?”

“But we know _squat_ about changelings.”

Blinky frowned, the gravity of a culture unknown, a culture of those who were once full trolls, was not lost to the academic. “Indeed.”

He looked at Jim and the helpless expression the Trollhunter was hiding well, “But who is to say this isn’t a wonderful learning opportunity, hm?”

Jim bounced his foot on a stair step in thought. It brought an endearing smile on the Trollhunter’s mentor.

“Perhaps we’re going about this the wrong way. Perhaps…instead of focusing solely on troll, not troll, human, not human, we should focus on what would calm our Mr. NotEnrique.”

Jim wasn’t confident he understood everything that Blinky said, but there was a certain way in how he said it that brought the teen comfort.

Jim nodded with a lopsided smile, “I’ll give it a shot Blinky.” and de-armored on his way up the stairs.

Blinky smiled fondly, as did Aargh.

“Jim good kid.” said Aargh as if reading Blinky’s mind.

“He truly is, old friend.”

Meanwhile, under the couch away from viewing eyes, KnotEnrique’s phone case pulsed a dim magical light.

Jim relayed Blinky’s thoughts to the others while KnotEnrique ran around the ceiling of the nursery. Knocking off a few glow-in-the-dark-stars in the process.

 

 

          Janus Order

 

Johnson swayed from one foot to the other, reading the timetables and signals of alerts. ‘Code Cat’s Cradle’ still reading across the screen like a banner.

The readings the Order and ipad were picking up being the pulsing waves KnotEnrique’s phone was giving off. Acting like a magical baby monitor. Alerting the Order his cover risked being unintentionally blown.

Such a bewitchment tended to happen to children’s toys the familiar would feel confident ‘playing’ with. A rattle, a blankie, or in KnotEnrique’s case a phone, (the phone cover to be more specific).

These enchantments were placed so the Order could step in and find ways to intervene or deescalate situations. This was done by assigning ‘Mentors’. Changelings who were already stationed near by the new changeling’s host family, and frequented the area be it by commute or having a local working cover.

When the magic baby monitor would go off, it tended to first alert the surrounding nearby Mentors.

The Mentors would arrive, sometimes disguised as neighbors with baby advice, or potential nanny hires that could disappear with the wind, and help smooth the situation over.

The need to cover and be attentive when a changeling goes into a tantrum spiked dramatically when humans started shedding more and more of their superstition. The harder to explain away curious happenings, weird outbursts, and strange un-babylike attitudes, the more the changeling community was at risk of exposure.

And now it was essential more than ever to keep their existence under wraps, with the way technology is. 

And so, it was for this reason Strickler and the rest of the Council in their meeting heard Johnson arguing with Zurougia outside the door they were guarding.

Johnson didn’t stand a chance against the formidable Zurougia, but Strickler knew the half-breed wasn’t foolish enough to try and interrupt what was a rather exceptionally important meeting for nothing.

It was the final meeting before the full Council decided on his continued leadership.

With tensions already high, added ruckus outside the door was unseemly at best.

“Forgive me Enoch, everyone.” went Strickler, eyes on the verge of glowing, “It’ll only take a quick moment. Though, how leaderly of me would it be to not help what I can, hm?” he bit his lip, realizing a little too late ‘leaderly’ wasn’t an actual word. He played it off with a forced chortle.

The members of the Council shared looks.

Enoch lowered the pen that was far too tiny in his large hand. “Pitter-patter.”

“Erm, yes. Quite…” shuffled Strickler without pushing his chair back in. It took him seconds to cross to the door. Giving a final apologetic nod before backing out of the room with a toothy smile.

Door closed Walter Strickler pivoted towards Johnson and Zurougia so sharply they even bolted to attention.

“ _What_ seems to be the problem?” Johnson opened his mouth, “And so help me Johnson, it better be good.”

Johnson shrunk against the calm in Strickler’s voice. Doubt oozed in his features as he paled. Their height difference, once seen as comical, now bordering as menacing.

Zurougia in their large troll form exhaled an intimidating snort.

Johnson turned the ipad to show a world map on the screen with several red dots on various continents. One of the dots pulsed. “We’re on Code Cat’s Cradle.” Strickler stared at the screen with no reaction, then slid his eyes back to Johnson. “A, a mentor isn’t responding to a tantrum. If it keeps up, we could risk exposure!”

Strickler’s smile was slow to stretch, “Are you telling me - at a Janus Order Head Quarters stock _full_ with changelings, you can’t find a _single_ one to go deal with this predicament?”

“But it could be the mentor is responding, but hasn’t sent back that they are responding- that is to say, we could accidentally send more changelings than necessary and doubly risk exposure.”

Strickler zoomed in on the house in question on the ipad. His finger slipping now and then. “Did you check with IT that it could be a bug?” Johnson handed the ipad over so it’d be easier for him to use.

“Yes sir.”

Strickler continued to awkwardly fumble with trying to zoom in on the map. “Didn’t we set up a log on this thing? About who’s, who’s mentor?”

“Ah-yes-right…” Johnson struggled on his tip toes to see the screen better.

The closer Strickler zoomed the more little red dots would appear. Occasionally Strickler would try to press the pulsing dot, but the map was still too far out for any reaction on the screen to happen. With every awkward minute passing, Johnson would wish harder for the screen to work.

Finally the pulsing dot appeared as a tiny red flag with Enrique written on it. Strickler’s brows furrowed before pressing the flag.

Four potential changeling mentors popped up three of which were abroad doing other missions, one of which being Nomura. Still counted as living.

Somewhere Nomura’s beeper was buzzing idly on her desk in her abandoned apartment. 

Strickler handed Johnson back the ipad and looked down the hall. Luck would have it that Karenna and Nikos were passing.

“You two.” he called motioning them over. He took the iPad out of Johnson’s hands and placed it in Karenna’s, “Deal with this. His host parent is the council woman.” He turned to Nikos, “And you, find a way to deactivate Nomura’s beeper.”

Nikos nodded fervently.

Johnson lifted a finger to interject. Bracing himself as he tried to remind their leader, “B-but Karenna can’t talk-“ everyone looked at Johnson. Zurougia in particular became thin lipped. “ _Vocally_ I mean!”

It still wasn’t public knowledge that Karenna’s voice box was fixed.

“ **I’ll manage**.” signed Karenna with a stead fast gaze.

Considering recent events, Strickler felt he could trust Karenna’s judgement on handling the matter. No matter what the veteran inquisitor found at the Nuñez’s.

Giving an air of someone who didn’t like to be contradicted Strickler went on to say, “See that you do. I’ll expect a full report when the situation is defused.” placing his hands behind his back. “The both of you.” His eyes shifted to Johnson. Nikos tensed ever so slightly. Anticipating one of Stricklander’s classically unnerving reprimands. Instead the changeling said, “Thank you for bringing this up.” and left it at that.

No one dared to show anything committal.

The three changelings in front of Strickler gave curt nods, hurrying on their way.

Strickler sighed internally, and checked his phone for the time.His brows furrowed with puzzlement at the sight of some missed calls. 

What on Earth would the Trollhunter call _him_ for?

He chalked it up to a mis-dial.

For surely, especially after the Angor Rot school incident, they were more enemies now than ever. Was it due to KnotEnrique? The probability was high, but still curious.

Strickler must have been staring at his phone for some time, his hand hovering over the door knob, as Zurougia felt the need to give a polite, “ahem.” to bring Strickler back from his thoughts.

“Yes.” Strickler clicked his phone screen off, pocketing it in his inner jacket. “Quite right, Zurougia.”

The two shared a nod. Strickler sharply exhaled his nerves, and reentered the council room.

 

          The Nuñez’s, Again

 

“I don’t think the singing is helping!” called Toby who ducked behind a book being thrown from the tiny pale blue bookshelf.

“Well, I don’t know…he looked like he calmed for a second there. The socks aren’t working either!”

“Listen KnotEnrique, it’s okay if you don’t remember.” coaxed Claire who’s hand reached close enough to almost get bit. “Ozzca!” pulled back Claire, intentionally saying one of the swears the changeling taught her that night.

No reaction on the changeling’s part.

The doorbell rang from downstairs. Echoing. The teens shared a panicked look of, _what do we do?!_ , and Jim’s head connected with a thrown book.

“Aagh!”

“Do you think it’s a noise complaint?”

“I’ll deal with the door!” declared Claire, handing Toby a stuffed animal giraffe. Claire bounced with nerves. “Whatever it is, I’ll, figure something out. You guys keep, keep finding things he’d react to.”

“What, like your dad’s cigars?” suggested Toby, grasping at metaphorical straws- and a physical empty pillowcase.

“¡Che no te atrevas!” she warned before bounding down the stairs.

Toby reeled back apologetically. Not needing a translation, her look and tone was enough.

Jim lowered the children’s book from his head. He considered the book, then the changeling. “Huh.”

The bell rang in time to Jim’s newfound idea. It seemed silly how simple it was.

Downstairs, Claire peaked through the window by the door to see who was there. It was her neighbor Mrs. Collins. A friendly Texan woman with bleached blonde hair, and questionably authentic sun-tan. She looked and dressed as though just returning from practicing a few rounds of tennis.

Claire cracked the door open ever so slightly so Mrs. Collins wouldn’t get a full view of the residual disaster in the house..

“Mrs. Collins? Hi, is everything alright?”

“I should hope so, dear. I just thought I’d swing by, see how y’all were doing.” Mrs. Collins smiled sweeter than Sunday lemonade. “Your parents home? Not sure I spotted their car in the driveway. I thought I heard a _ruckus_. And it wouldn’t quite well be the neighborly thing to let it slide, now would it? Not from the head of the neighborhood watch.” she chuckled in a small show of pride. “No sir-re Bob!” the neighbor pushed the door a little wider and walked inside without invitation.

“Oh.” Claire closed her eyes, cursing KnotEnrique’s earlier party. “Right. Sorry about the noise Mrs. Collins, me and the girls were trying out the -um- new stereo.”

“You girls sure did have your fun.” was all the comment Mrs. Collins made about the state of the house, “Well no harm no foul. I’m just worried about little En-rea-kay. Heard him hollerin’ a block away!” there was a thump sound from upstairs Mrs. Collins didn’t seem to notice, nor seemed too worried about. “He doin’ okay?”

“Ye-yup!” coughed Claire who preceded to give an exaggerated thumbs up, “Peachy Keen.”

“Well ain’t that just wonderful. Where is the little guy?”

Mrs. Collins, with continued self imposed invitation, started her way up the stairs.

Claire was shocked. Frantic at the uncharacteristic action. Sure Mrs. Collins was always a bit of a social butterfly, but this was pushing it. Usually she had better social graces than to make herself at home.

Bouncing with her thoughts Claire went to quickly close her front door that was left wide open. It was then that she spotted an unrecognized truck parked on the other side of the road.

“Did you get a new car Mrs. Collins?”

“Who little ol’ me? Na-ah.” she cleared her throat and pressed on, ignoring the vocal irregularities, “Second door to the left, right?”

Claire furrowed her brows. “Is your voice okay?”

With her back turned the smile on Mrs. Collins face strained. “Oh you know this dry air. Mind getting me some water? I do have a tickle.” she improvised a cough which also sounded off, and continued on her way.

Claire uncrossed her arms and went up the stairs following after her all too friendly neighbor.

“I just got a text. My parents are coming home soon.” Claire invented. Catching up to Mrs. Clollins. “I think they got into a fight. You should probably go before they get back. I have everything-“ Claire pushed pass Mrs. Collins, trying to block the view of Enrique’s room. “under control.”

Mrs. Collins, being taller than the teen, saw past Claire onto a scene she didn’t anticipate at all.

KnotEnrique in his human form staring wide eyed at Jim and Toby. Looking relatively calm, aside from how the child’s chest rose and fell.

Jim, sat on a bean bag chair, reading a book aloud, with the help of Toby, who occasionally provided sound effects either via phone app or vocally.

Claire was relieved the scene was nothing too wild, to say the least.

“And Little Red Riding Hood went, ‘Why Grandmother! Such big eyes you have!’

“ ‘All the better to see you with, my child.’ ”

“Um, Jim?” nudged Toby who was the first to realize they were not alone.

The three of them, including baby form KnotEnrique looked at Claire and Mrs. Collins.

Mrs. Collins seemed particularly bewildered at the sight of Jim reading to the babe.

“Can we, ah- help you?” Jim asked.

“See, no problem here Mrs. Collins. Lets go down stairs and I’ll get you that water.” suggested Claire.

Mrs. Collins continued to stare silently between Jim and the eerily far too still baby. KnotEnrique stared back.

Jim and Toby shared looks. Toby giving a look that read, _what’s with the lady? What do we do?_

Jim’s face responded with a, _I have no idea._

Claire cleared her throat uncomfortably.

It was like watching two cautious dogs size each other up in a park. Unmoving, and equally unnerving.

“Mrs. Collins?”

“That ain’t Mrs. Collins.” the baby said with the slightest gummy lisp. KnotEnrique stood himself up to lean against the crib. The kids tensed.

Toby was the first to answer, “Was that the baby’s first words??? Cause that’s impressive!”

Mrs. Collins stretched a smile and said in a very un-Mrs. Collins way, the Texan accent dropping into nothing, “Hola Enrique.”

Jim snapped the book shut as he he stood up.

“Aw don’t lose the spot!” KnotEnrique whined. He flashed a gummy smile at the intruding changeling, and changed forms. “It’s KnotEnrique, actually - with a ‘ _k_ ’.”

“She’s a changeling.” said Jim reaching for the amulet.

“What tipped you off? The zero reaction to a talking baby?”

Toby got to his feet in a huff, and Claire backed away while reaching for her pocketed staff.

The changelings however, didn’t move.

“Doesn’t that make it sound like Not Enrique?” asked Mrs. Collins/Karenna.

“It’s the principle of it!” exclaimed the diapered changeling.

‘Mrs. Collins’ raised her hands. “All right, no need to get excited. KnotEnrique it is.” she then reached into her purse, which caused the surrounding teens to tense at the ready, and smoothly pulled out an ipad from it.

“Bossman’s got a message for me or something?”

“Don’t you guys text?” asked Toby.

‘Mrs. Collins’ raised a brow, and studied the youths.

“ _She_ didn’t need to know that.” KnotEnrique explained low though his teeth.

“I’m sure I would have found out one way or another.” Calmly, she started messing with the ipad, occasionally looking back at KnotEnrique.“You seem to have calmed down moderately. Though are still a little bit at a risk.”

“At risk for what?” leaned KnotEnrique.

“Well,” started ‘Mrs. Collins’.

“Wait you’re going to explain even in front of the kids?”

‘Mrs. Collins’ rolled her eyes and did an impatient wave. “Do you want to know too?” she asked them bluntly. The teens shared looks, as if it were a trick question. “You’re still at risk to start tantruming again. You’re supervisors were worried, alarms set off, and here I am so make sure you get below the At Risk of Agitation line.” she held the ipad and hovered it near KnotEnrique.

“I ain’t got supervisors, sis.”

“Just because you defect doesn’t change the fact you’re a young changeling. You still have a lot to learn.”

“Hold on. _Tantruming_? What’s that?” asked Jim.

‘Mrs. Collins’ considered the Trollhunter. His genuine curiosity. Did she detect concern in his voice as well? It felt alarmingly disarming. Her eyes trailed to the other two teens as well. They seemed concerned and protective as well.

Never in Karenna’s wildest dreams…

The corner of ‘Mrs. Collins’ lips tugged ever so slightly upwards.

“When a baby throws a tantrum - it’s in the name.” KnotEnrique explained with hidden embarrassment.

“There’s more to it than that. It tends to occur when there’s high levels of frustration over adjusting to being Topside. It’s difficult to keep two lives, to feel and act two things, and keep going.” from the corner of her eye, ‘Mrs. Collins’ caught the teens nodding as they listened, understanding the struggle in their own different ways. She smiled sympathetically. “Especially on ones so, so young.”

“I ain’t young!” KnotEnrique said stubbornly.

“That’s part of the frustration though. There’s magic in the Darklands that has kept you young. Be it the way time works there, or whatever they did to us at the rookery. Once we’ve been bound to a familiar and returned Topside it’s like a…” ‘Mrs. Collins’ looked at the ceiling for the easiest wording, “an unpausing, but also a reset. You have age, yes, but you’re also young. And you’ll learn and grow, as if the sands of time can finally move forward again for you.” from habit she moved her hands as she spoke. Jim found it rather hypnotic to watch. “And that disconnect, that disjointed feeling can be jarring at times, and can cause such levels of frustration that you start Tantruming.” she frowned. “And with Tantruming there’s a risk of exposure that is very dangerous. To you, and the rest of us.”

“So you’re here only for that. So changelings don’t get exposed.” Toby shrewdly noted.

“Yes.” ‘Mrs. Collins’ said plainly. “With humanity’s current technological advancement we can’t have a risk of being exposed, or going viral, or trending on Twitter.” she shrugged, “You’re lucky, I suppose. There was a time this sort of curtesy wasn’t even done - and if you exposed yourself you’d be on your own and at risk of being popped into an oven or struggling through a Gaggle-tacking as humans used to hang pure iron necklaces on babes they thought weren’t actually theirs.”

KnotEnrique made a face. ‘Mrs. Collins’ nodded with an expression of, _yeah I know_.

“When the heck did that happen?” asked Toby.

“Somewhere between the 15th and 19th century.”

“ _What_?”said Toby incredulously.

“Superstition can be a strong thing.”

Jim tilted his head to the side, squinting as though trying to see something not there. “How old are you?”

“I think we’re getting sidetracked.” dodged ‘Mrs. Collins’. “I’m here for KnotEnrique’s questions, and his Tantruming.”

“Now hold on, sis. I’m actually kinda curious meself.” The diapered changeling leaned forward. An amused mischievous grin on his face.

‘Mrs. Collins’ sighed internally, glanced at the information and graphs on her ipad that indicated KnotEnrique’s potential stress levels, and sighed again.

“I came out of the fetch just before Killahead happened. so… 1300s, Kingdom of Aragon.” Claire’s eyes twinkled with fascination. “Please don’t ask for specific dates- I wasn’t really paying attention to that sort of thing back then.”

“You, uh…look great for your age.” Toby fumbled.

“It isn’t even her face.” snarked KnotEnrique.

‘Mrs. Collins’ gave a small chortle through her nose.

“I was guessing sometime more…recent.” admitted Jim, still slightly open mouthed.

“You know trolls who’ve been at the battle of Killahead, right?”

Jim nodded.

“Changelings _are_ part troll.”

“But the human age part? Doesn’t that get in the way?”

‘Mrs. Collins’ shook her head, “Only with maintaining a cover - we have to occasionally fake a death, or birth-certificate, to not come across as a witch or some immortal to humans. Maybe even go away for a few decades and come back as some long lost cousin.”

“But…the 1300s that’s…” Jim tried to comprehend the meaning of such a long life. Chapters learned from history class

flew in front of the teen’s eyes. It was one thing imagining such a long life with anthropomorphic rocks, there’s a timelessness to begin with when it comes to rocks and stone, but looking into the falsified fleshy face of Mrs. Collins made it all feel - different. “That’s a long time.”

Patiently, ‘Mrs. Collins’ nodded with agreement, “We’re able to maintain trollish longevity…or so it seems, so far. We don’t really know much more than that, really.”

“Do you know the ages of other changelings?”

“That’s not…” ‘Mrs. Collins’ paused at the sight of such a questioning Trollhunter. Not even her fellow Gumm-Gumms have asked so many questions. Less than ever showed a want to care. Again, she sighed internally. “Conversationally we tend to generalize the years and centuries. There are those Pre-Killahead, Post Killahead, part of the Baby Boom, Post Baby Boom.” she gestured to KnotEnrique on the last one.

Claire tapped a finger against her chin, and scratched the side of her nose. “So…then the question isn’t how old you are, but rather when did you go Topside?”

‘Mrs. Collins’ nodded.

Jim thoughtfully scratched the back of his shin with his other foot. “Cool…cool…so how old’s Strickler?”

“ _Pre_ -Killahead.”

Toby leaned forward, “That museum lady?”

“Nomura?” ‘Mrs. Collins’ paused, and said, “Baby Boom.”

“Aah so she was born in the 1960’s?”

“Came out of the fetch,” ‘Mrs. Collins’ corrected, “and no. The Baby Boom to changelings is the 1800’s. High human infant mortality rates equals more people willing and wanting to believe their child overcame an illness.” she shrugged, “Less people questioning if the child is actually theirs.”

The teens grew silent. KnotEnrique leaned his elbow on his crib taking the information matter of factly. Strategically, it made sense.

Claire was the first to talk. “But, mi hermanito wasn’t sick…he was in perfect health.”

“I wasn’t in the room when the decision was made.” said ‘Mrs. Collins’ with the smallest, minute hue of apology. “But, I can tell you the children usually taken are either sick, or neglected.”

“Enrique wasn’t neglected!” rebutted Claire. “I was here! I, I _should_ have been here.”

“That shouldn’t be a responsibility placed on another child.” ‘Mrs. Collins’ said as softly as her blunt nature allowed.

Claire scowled and looked away. Angry at such a comment, and at herself. “I’m old enough.”

“You are.” Claire looked back at ‘Mrs. Collins’, her eyes inhumanly still. “You’re also old enough to carry a weapon. And there was once a time you were considered old enough to be married off, give birth, or shipped to war tents. Luckily, your humans have learned of the psychological effects and damages all of the above can do to the still growing. The adolescent.”

Jim had the jarring shaky feeling ‘Mrs. Collins’ was speaking from harsh experience.

But Claire, like most who want to prove themselves ready for great things early on, stubbornly jutted her chin forward. “Whatever. Enrique wasn’t neglected.”

“Where are your parents now?”

Claire deflated. The wind knocked out of her sails. 

‘Mrs. Collins’ sighed and ran a hand through her bleached blonde hair. This had gone on long enough. The changeling needed to get on to her main task.

She stepped forward and crouched a little. Close to the crib.

“KnotEnrique, what were you Tantruming about?” the changeling asked.

“Nothin’.” KnotEnrique sniffed.

“He was telling me what he remembers from the Darklands.” Claire explained without looking at either changeling. “Specifically the ruck, erm, rick-”

“Rookeries.” KnotEnrique reminded stiffly. “The life of the party, I was.”

“The details were all fuzzy?” guessed ‘Mrs. Collins’.

The silence that followed was answer enough to ‘Mrs. Collins’.

“I remember the Darklands just fine. It’s the rookery that I’m starting to forget.”

“You will forget the rookery. It’s inevitable. The Darklands however…that” she frowned, “you will remember.”

“Why can’t I remember both.”

“We don’t know.” KnotEnrique’s ears lowered flat against his head. ‘Mrs. Collins’ bit her lip looking for some comforting words she could give. Some added softness. “There’s…there is, pain and dissonance in forgetting the ones we left behind in the Darklands. perhaps you’ll see them again KnotEnrique, but you will not recognize them.” ‘Mrs. Collins’ smiled. Bittersweet with understanding. “For all either of us knows we might have been friends in the Darklands too. But we’ll never know, and never remember.”

“What…what causes this?” asked KnotEnrique, just above a whisper. As if talking louder might scare the answer away, or anger it.

‘Mrs. Collins’ matched his volume, her anger wasn’t well hidden. “No one has been _kind_ enough to explain that much to us.” she gave an exhaled snort and leaned forward on her knees, “We think it is the sunlight…” she continued, biting her nail thinking how best to explain, “Like…like when you go from a dark room and suddenly step outside. It’s blinding, and jarring, and you still need time to adjust. Fresh out of the fetch you’re still adjusting to life attached to your familiar. The process that made it possible. That bond, that balance or sudden imbalance of troll to human ratio. And…just like how after being exposed to the sun your vision starts to adjust. So do you start to adjust, physically…and mentally. Until it is just, the surface, and the dual life that lays before you.” She reached her hand out, hesitated, and awkwardly patted KnotEnrique’s little stoney shoulder. “I’m sorry. It is how it is.”

“Do you really believe that?” asked Jim.

The older changeling found it hard to look the Trollhunter straight in the eyes. She got up. “I’ve done what I came to do.” She rolled her shoulders and slid the ipad back into her purse. “I’m surprised you didn’t Tantrum sooner.”

“We found out he wasn’t my _real_ brother early on.” Claire explained. Her tone not unkind, but certainly challenging.

KnotEnrique’s ears lowered. Claire, spotting this, clapped her hands over her mouth. Furrowing her brow, she reprimanded herself.

Fueled by the power of wanting to right what she said, and older sister fury, she said, “But he’s my brother now too! So get the ozzca out of my house!!”

KnotEnrique’s eyes dilated as he smiled wide and proud. “Yeah! Ya yenhaa!” he jumped up brandishing his baby bottle as a weapon.

“What’s a yenhaa?” Claire asked, eyes twinkling.

“It’s like calling her a-“

“Bitch.” wheezed ‘Mrs. Collins’ who was bent forward laughing. A hand placed at her throat as though the act of vocalizing a laugh started to hurt and strain with repetition. She placed her weight on her knees with her other hand. “Holy shit ow ow ow ow haha that’s-“ she wiped a tear from her eye. “Haha ow ow haha, I’ll leave.” she managed to say with a waving hand and swelling heart. ‘Mrs. Collins’/ Karenna started to understand her leader’s trouble with killing these children a little more.

She straightened herself out and looked them all over - _such children_ , she though, the graveness sinking in.

Jim gawked at the scene, and finally pocketed the amulet. “So you’re…just leaving? Like that? No fighting??”

“My orders were to make sure KnotEnrique doesn’t expose himself. I’m too late for that. Then again there’s a difference between exposure to humans, and the Trollhunter.” She turned to Claire, “It’d have been a different story if your parents were here too, little cousin.”

“Little cousin?” said Toby.

“You’re human - we’re half human - to overly simplify.”

“Close but not too close.” pitched in KnotEnrique.

“Like cousins.”

The humans became quiet with the weight of this information.

“Don’t look so disappointed. I can still fight you if you like.” joked ‘Mrs. Collins’.

“¡No! Don’t you dare!”

“We just cleaned the ruddy place!” KnotEnrique defended along side Claire.

Claire groaned and leaned against the wall, “And now we’re going to have to clean again too.”

“Are you serious?!” KnotEnrique flared up. Then paused and finally started to register the chaos he had caused. “Oh.” he said making himself smaller. “Oops.”

The older changeling watched on feeling disarmed yet again at how the two acted with one another. “Imagine that.” The corner of ‘Mrs. Collins’ lips tugged ever so slightly upwards.

“What did you say?” asked Toby.

Backpedaling the changeling corrected, “Yeah I don’t envy either of you. It’s a shit show downstairs.”

Jim nodded in agreement, Toby pretended to be offended by the swear, and Claire gave a grumpy. “Thanks.”

‘Mrs. Collins’ gave another small smile, double checked her purse and made her way to the door.

“Wait! NotMrs. Collins!” Jim stepped forward. 

The changeling stopped, and gave a look to KnotEnrique.

“Mine’s with a ‘k’ in it.” the diapered changeling reminded her.

She narrowed her eyes at KnotEnrique, and looked back at Jim. “Karenna.” she corrected. “You can call me Karenna.”

The teen rubbed the back of his calf with his other foot. “Karenna.” he repeated apologetically. “Do you know Shigir?”

“Not personally.” the changeling snarked with badly hidden bewildered eyes.

Never in her wildest imaginings did she think she’d hear such a name out of a Trollhunter’s mouth. And a human one no less!

“No I mean, like, what -ah, well what I want to ask is…” Jim took a breath. Slowing his thoughts down, “Could you, tell me more about him?”

Karen cocked her head to the side, finding the Trollhunter more and more curious. “What’s your name, Trollhunter? What do you call yourself?”

“Oh! Right. Um, Jim…and that’s Claire, and that’s Toby.”

“Dude! Don’t give her our names!”

KnotEnrique shrugged, “I’m sure she’d have found out one way or another.”

The changeling smiled at Jim’s politeness. “How did you learn about Shigir, Trollhunter Jim?”

“Uh…Strickler, I guess.”

“We learned it together.” explained KnotEnrique. “Didn’t knows about it either before.”

“He…told you?”

“Well more like he left clues around.”

“Clues? All he did was leave a name!” said Toby, “We had to do the rest.”

Karenna smiled, recognizing the behavior.

“I was able to find out _some_ things. Is there a way to find out more?” the curiosity ate at him like the need to solve a puzzle would eat at Claire. “The closest written thing I found was some troll nursery rhyme but they got the name wrong.” He gave it a little more thought, “Or maybe the name is intentionally wrong.” 

Karenna smiled. “Maybe.”

“So, can…can I hear a story?” Jim asked, feeling borderline childish.

‘Mrs. Collins’s’ face didn’t do much justice to the feelings she felt upon Jim’s question. Very rarely did she feel the impulse to hug a human.

The changeling didn’t act on it.

At most she gave the teen a pat on the shoulder.

The motion illuminated the fit bit on her arm. She checked the time, and frowned. “I don’t have time for a full story. I’m sorry.”

Jim’s shoulders slouched.

“Besides.” the changeling picked up the book of Little Red Riding Hood he had been reading to KnotEnrique, and handed it to him. “It’s bad manners to interrupt a storyteller’s turn. Some might even say it’s bad luck as well.”

“Why?” asked Toby stepping to stand beside Jim.

“Who’s to say you’ll be around long enough to finish it?”

“Oh.” gulped Toby.

“Finish your story, Trollhunter Jim.” her hand waved as she spoke, making for the door again. “I’ll see myself out.” she then stopped herself at the threshold. “All things considered…I can see now why you’re a tough kill.”

Jim blinked, perplexed. Her meaning flying over his head.

The crow’s feet on Mrs. Collins’s face deepened as the changeling smiled, “I’m sure you’ll hear a Shigir story soon enough. Until then, be clever. Don’t die too soon.”

Just like that, ‘Mrs. Collins’ exited Enrique’s bedroom and the Nuñez’s house.

Jim looked down at the book, he trailed a finger over the spine. Flipping through its pages to where he left off. Little Red Riding Hood asking the wolf disguised as her grandmother oh so many questions.

In the illustration it was comically obvious the grandmother was a wolf the whole time.

“I don’t think I’ll ever look at Mrs. Collins the same way again.” Claire said, her eyes following the changeling from the window as she crossed the street to the parked pickup truck.

“How did she do that?” Toby asked.

“Glamour mask, mate. Yeh can take on the shape of any already existing being that way.” KnotEnrique explained.

Jim, still eyeing the book, wondered if after the whole ordeal Little Red ever felt comfortable around her grandmother afterwards. Or would there be a seed of doubt, and discomfort.

Claire, still observing from the window, watched as Mrs. Collins’s back changed in a flash. From petit tennis coach looking blonde, to a pear shaped chestnut dark woman with very muscular arms.

In her hand was the mask KnotEnrique mentioned. Though Claire couldn’t quite make out the details of it from a distance.

She did have a sneaky feeling she might have seen the mask before. She just couldn’t remember where.

 

          Deena’s Flower shop

 

Otto paced around in the greenhouse at the back of Deena’s Flower shop. It was rather empty at such an hour. As for why he chose to make his phone call there was because he doubted Stricklander would come back to the flower shop anytime soon.

Especially what happened last time.

Phone to his ear. Otto’s expressions ranged from excited to concern to back again.

Things were going smoothly as planned. 

Fearfully, he didn’t even question it.

He had collected names around Arcadia who was in contact with the Trollhunter. Those who meant a great deal to the Trollhunter. He had successfully contacted Krax, wherever he was, and it wouldn’t be long until the Krubera entered into Trollmarket.

“Yes, yes thank you Krax.” he paused. “Yes your parrot is doing fine. No, it isn’t dead. Mhm. Excellent.”

Deena seemed to manifest behind the hydrangeas with a tray of espresso.

Otto, while talking, smiled thankfully, and took the little porcelain cup from the tray. He raised it in a mini cheers.

Deena raised the empty tray in a motion of a cheers of her own, and returned to the other visitors.

Meanwhile the voice on the other end of the phone sounded resigned, and a little sad.

 

          Janus Order, Later

 

Walter Strickler was in his office, his head in his hands. Head aching.

His shoulders felt stiff and cold. Himself feeling drained after the day’s meeting. Taxed even.

Strickler just wanted to crawl into a soft hole and sleep for a century. Maybe two.

 _Perhaps when this is all over, when things are more stable_ , he thought, _then I can finally rest_.

The changeling sighed into his hands, and stayed there for a while. He imagined a sunny day in the hills. Swallows chirping and diving into a near by body of water for a drink. The sun so warm there wasn’t a single touch of frost in his bones. Perhaps with a picnic blanket to lay on and a basket filled with good food - the shade of olive trees…someone to share that with.

A kind hand to help and hold. To shower kisses onto, and thank for existing. Laughter and ease never too far from either of them.

Dare he add the thought of a family?

A calm gentle wind that carried the flowers of almond trees on the breeze, filling the air like spring snow. The sound of laughter, and a calmer world he didn’t feel like he had to hide away from anymore. Not himself, nor anyone.

Walter Strickler held that image in his head as long as he could, and pushed himself away from his desk. Dragging his feet over to the electric kettle.

As Strickler waited for the water to boil he used this time to decide what tea he’d prefer, dry swallow some tylenol, and to check the thermostat in his office.

It felt colder than it was. He frowned at the thermostat, tapping an Irish Breakfast tea packet against his other hand.

Coincidentally someone knocked on his door.

Strickler gave himself a few seconds to recompose. Readjusting his lapels, dropping the teabag into his empty mug, making the someone wait.

When he was back seated at his desk, looking more like the impression one would imagine when thinking ‘world domination’, steam curling in his mug like a beckoning hand, Strickler finally said, “Come in.”

Karenna creaked the door open, files and paperwork in hand.

“Well?” he said expectantly, turning his mug around on his desk lazily by the handle.

Karenna presented the paperwork in silence, freeing her hands to sign, “ ** _Knot_ Enrique has been stabilized. The parents weren’t home.**”

“Excellent.” he said, flipping through the paperwork. Within was a moderately detailed observation of the Nuñez’s residency. “There isn’t a clean up estimate in this.”

“ **I didn’t stay to clean.** ”

“I should hope there was a good reason.” Strickler closed the folder, tapping the papers in order on his desk. “Unless you expect me to believe KnotEnrique, on his first tantruming didn’t dismember the entire house.” The arch in Strickler’s brow gave a keen sign that it would take quite a bit of convincing.

“ **The Trollhunter was there.** ”

Strickler’s disposition shifted ever so slightly. “Ah.” Slowly he placed the file to the side, and busied his hands with taking up his mug instead. “…Go on.”

“ **Him and his little friends didn’t cause me much trouble. They seemed, genuinely concerned for our little brother.** ”

Strickler took a long sip of his tea.

“ **The Nuñez girl seems to show signs of acceptance towards him. Sibling like. Despite the pain she still feels that her real brother was used as a familiar.** ” Strickler lowered the mug. “ **They were all in the room when I gave my explanation to KnotEnrique.** ”

Strickler placed the mug back on its coaster. An old ceramic hand painted coaster, filled with rolling hills, cypresses, and sunshine.

“ **They seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, in a way I’ve never seen from trolls. But I _suppose_ that’s humans for you.** ” Karenna shrugged, side eyeing Strickler to see if his reaction would give anything away.

Walter Strickler turned his mug around, and quietly folded his hands on his desk. Contemplatively twiddling his thumbs.

Finally he signed, “ **What kind of things did they seem interested in?** ”

The corners of Karenna’s lips turned upwards ever so slightly.

From there she started to explain the scenario in vivid detail. In such a way it was like he had been there.

Strickler would keep as non committal face as he could. Though couldn’t help but feel amused, and warmed.

Glad to hear KnotEnrique was able to cultivate such a close relationship with Claire.

Jim asking to hear a story was something that surprised the changeling. After the school Angor Rot incident Strickler was sure Jim would give up any want to search more information on Shigir. Happy to be proved wrong.

When Karenna was done with her details Strickler nodded and signed a “ **Thank you**.”

Karenna brought her hands close to herself, hesitant to sign on the thought that had been following her since she left the Nuñez’s.

“ **Permission to give an opinion freely?** ”

Tentative yet curious, Strickler gestured a, ‘go on’.

“ **Do we really _need_ to kill the Trollhunter?** ”

If the question was brought up any other place, any other time, and with Bular still alive, Karenna wouldn’t still be standing. Both changelings knew this. And while Strickler stared down Karenna, Karenna couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. Looking like a pair of argumentative dogs that knew once eye contact was met it would start a fight. This being the trollishness to some changeling ways.

 _What mysterious power the Lake family must have, to have friends and foes gravitate towards them with such ease_ , Strickler begrudgingly thought.

It was Strickler’s continued silence that gave Karenna courage to slowly lift her eye-line. To realize Strickler no longer looked at her.

She noted the strange look on his face. A look she had seen before in pained fathers too old to go to the wars their sons must now fight.

Tired and sad.

It was Strickler’s further silence that made Karenna’s heart leap in her throat with elated realization. A realization she signed after a few quick taps of his desk, “ **You conniving bastard. You’ve been trying to figure out ways to _not_ kill him, haven’t you?** ”

“ **Watch it.** ”

Karenna’s eyes immediately lowered, though only fractionally. A coy look still very present on her face. Proud it took so little for her to figure it out.

The voice through what had been a rather silent room aside from the sound of hand hitting hitting hand, came cold and detached. Like a thunderstorm that, although sounded dangerous, was far away, yet could come down over head in an instant. “You better get out of my office Karenna. Get out, and forget this conversation ever happened like your life depended on it.”

Karenna’s whole head lowered. But she didn’t move.

“ **You know, if I was ever tasked with killing the Trollhunter - which thank the stars I wasn’t- I…if I’m being honest.** ” she paused, and wondered if her life was worth the opinion she unequivocally wished to give. Yet Strickler had yet to stop her. She continued her signing, finding truth in the words that bloomed from her hands. “ **…I’m not sure I’d be able to kill him.** ”

Stricklander stood sharply to his feet. Karenna rushed out of his office as if Bertilak Bredbeddle himself was chasing at her heels.

But no such creature followed.

In fact, nothing followed after her.

Strickler’s office door left swaying on its own. Watched by a changeling who felt as worn as a seaside cliff.

 

No Choir 

 

“Look I’m not worried, just…concerned.”

“Barb that’s just another way of saying worried.”

“Three days really isn’t that long.”

“Aaand now you’re repeating yourself.” Anna said from her end of the phone call between bites of her sandwich.

“I’m sure there’s a reason. I told you about what happened at the school.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Look maybe the whole school thing really got to him, you know?”

“And he was…? Where?”

“Doing school things.”

“Outside of school? Is that even allowed?”

“Doctors do doctor things outside the theater.”

“Ah. My favorite practice term.” Dr. Anna spun in her chair while double checking if any residual mayonnaise was on her lip. “After years of medical school learning ‘doctor things’.”

Barbara snorted a laugh while adjusting the flower arrangement she had in the kitchen.

Anna smiled and sighed. “He’s a good man?”

Barbara’s smile lingered, “Yeah…I like to think so.” Pressing her finger tips ever so slightly to her cheek she added fondly, “So far, so very good.”

“No red flags?”

“Well I’ve never had to wake up wondering how I got in his bed.”

“Barb.”

“Well it’s true.”

“…does he know? About…?”

“No…not yet.” Barbara bit her lip and squinted her eyes shut. “And maybe not even I know…I keep going back and forth.”

“It’s been years.” Anna said patiently, like one who has been there for many conversations on the subject.

“I know - I just…I hate that I’ll never be sure. A part of me…a part of me wonders maybe…” Barbara looked up to the ceiling. “Look it’s still too soon to talk about all that with him, you know? And if I don’t want to talk about it I don’t have to.”

“I know.” said Anna quietly.

Barbara pinched the bridge of her nose and lifted her glasses from her nose to her hair line. “I know you know.” she rubbed her eye saying again softer, “I know you know…it’s, I said it more as a reminder to myself.”

“Yeah.” in the lingering silence, Anna sat her sandwich down, swapping the phone from one ear to the other.

Spontaneously Barbara started giggling, “Gosh does he have the nerdiest sense of humor though.” cheering up by the thought of Walter.

“Coming from you that is something.”

“Okay haha okay, remember that semester in Florence? When we took that train to Milan and saw that insurance building? We couldn’t stop laughing because _the insurance building_ had a fresco of Eve taking the apple?”

Anna smiled and shook her head looking upwards, “I remember it being a mosaic and _you_ being unable to stop laughing.”

“ _Insurance_.” chuckled on Barbara. “That’s his sense of humor! That’s how I’d describe it.”

“I’m disgusted already.”

“Subtle and classy.”

“Ah-huh.” awkwardly Anna tapped her finger against her sandwich. Asking cautiously “And…when he gets angry?”

“Rare.”

“That can be worrying. What if he’s never angry because he’s bottling it all up, and then suddenly- explodes?”

“No no no. I mean it takes a lot to get him angry. From what I’ve noticed so far…” Barbara bit her nail while she walked, examined her cuticle, and looked up to find herself being looked back by her brother’s picture. “The only example that comes to mind is when one of his coworkers kept making a big deal about these umbrellas for her discount Singing In the Rain production she’s trying to set up. She wants huge same size umbrellas, all yellow. I happened to be there for one of the times she was hounding him about them. School was over, we had a small pocket of time before I had to clock in, and he listened to her for 20 minutes. 20 ball busting minutes.” Barbara adjusted the frame of her brother’s picture. “He was calm until she said, ‘it was a matter of life and death’.” her finger trailed on the frame, looking up into Grant’s eyes.

“So…what did he do?”

“Pivoted, _smiled_ , and went ‘Have a care Ms. Janeth you wouldn’t know a matter of life and death if it came up and smacked you with one of your own umbrellas.’”

Anna sucked in air “Yikes.” then sucked in more air through her teeth realizing, “and to the drama teacher too!”

“He immediately apologized _and_ asked for forgiveness not only to Ms. Janeth for ‘toeing the line’ but even to _me_! He kept saying, ‘I’m ashamed you had to see that. It shouldn’t have happened to begin with.’ and ‘Bad form all around’.”

“Huh.” Anna chewed the side of her cheek thoughtfully. Then made a face, “‘Bad form’? What is he Dustin Hoffman in Hook?”

“He’s…” Barbara walked away into the kitchen to lean against the counter. “…kind. Gentle. Like a modern day Mr. Darcy. It’s so _easy_ talking to him there isn’t effort at all. It’s been months, but it feels like years that we’ve known each other.”

“Sounds like a honeymoon stage in a relationship.”

“You’re not wrong…but it…I haven’t felt this alive about anyone in so long…I, I really hope this works Anna. I really _want_ this to work.”

“Wanting it to work is half the dance. Does _he_ want it to work?”

Barbara bit her bottom lip “…I think so.”

“Think?”

“We haven’t…ah..”

“Been avoiding the big talks?” Anna guessed correctly. Gliding in her office chair to her filing cabinet to retrieve some paperwork. She double checked her hands before opening the cabinet.

“Fine. We haven’t had a touch base sort of talk. I don’t know if he wants this to work.” admitted Barbara before defending, “but I’ve never once wondered if he cares about me. It’s so- refreshing!” Barbara swayed her hips with renewed excitement. Feeling her words to be true. “He definitely cares about me! Oh Anna I’m so tired of shitty men, I want this to work. It’s scary, and fun, and he cares!”

Anna’s smile could be heard from her side of the phone as she sighed. “I hope it works out Barb. You deserve to have some softness.”

“A Sunday kind of love.” Barbara fluttered.

“You lucky duck.” Anna smirked and crossed her arms, “Even my J.D. is getting jealous.” she said as she walked over the corpse on the morgue’s slab.

“Poor John Doe … drunk driving?” Barbara guessed as a set of headlights flashed through the window as a car parked out by her house’s curb.

“Nah, thinking over dose…currently waiting for some tests.” Anna pulled her phone away as Barbara squealed from her end of the phone. “Don’t get too excited.”

“He’s here!”

“What?”

“H i m ! _Lupus in fabula_!!!”

“Nerd.”

“You know he spouts Latin phrases too!? I noticed it when Jim came home saying something new…fabe vobis or…I don’t know - who cares - he’s _here_!”

Anna feigned a groan smirking all the while. “Now Jim’s a nerd? Since when?”

“Aside from always? Freshmen year.” Barbara peaked through the window then hugged the wall by the door. “I think he’s bringing something.”

“Wine?”

Barbara peaked again. “Something in a tray.”

“Oof. Just when I thought he could be perfect.” Anna snarked. “Tell him to bring wine next time.”

“Gotta go.”

“Hey! Hey!! Tell me what happens-!” Barbara hung up before more could be said. Anna shook her head and sighed to her John Doe, “Lucky duck.” she repeated for only the dead to hear. She checked the clock, the tests should be done by now.

Barbara placed her phone away and rapidly ran her fingers through her hair.

Checking herself for any kind of stains that might have left itself on her during the workday. She checked how dirty her glasses were (filthy) and felt rather embarrassed as she searched for her lens cloth while saying, “He’s here! Shit he’s here. He’s here!”

She liked how terrifying school girlish she felt.

It was after her glasses were better cleaned that she noticed her mascara was running slightly under her eyes. She tried to remedy this as best as she could.

Giving a light lick on her finger and dabbing under her eyes.

Barbara was so engrossed with touching up fast that she jumped when her door bell rang.

“Be cool.” she told her reflection. “Be cool.”

Clearing her throat she walked over towards the door, paused to think if she should make him wait, then decided that such a silly game wasn’t necessary. She wanted to see him, she was positive he wanted to see her too.

“I’m having fun.” she told herself. “We’ll see where this goes.” placing her hand on the door knob she hoped out loud, “Oh please work out. I want this to work. Please want this to work too.”

With a determined exhale she opened the door. Placing all her butterfly fluttering excitement in her grip on the door knob.

“Hullo Barbara.” Walter smiled, looking not too short of a bundle of nerves himself. He presented forward the tray with tinfoil wrapped on top. Then remembered how words worked, “I made these.”

“The price tag says otherwise.” she cracked.

“What?” blanched Walter checking to see if there was still a barcode on the tray. It was his first time using this tray in particular.

“Joke!” she remedied nervously, “Bad joke.”

Walter’s brow creased, unsure there was such a thing as a bad joke- or what that had to do with lingering price tags, and quickly realized what Barbara meant. The changeling added effort to his exhale so to expel a bit of his own nerves.

“Ah! You got me. Quite good.” he looked down at the crooked reflection of himself in the tin foil, “Quite good.”

So far the scene wasn’t following the scenario Walter had been imagining while baking and driving over.

“I wanted to apologize.” Walter said getting to the point. “I’ve been a bit distant these days without much explanation. I thought of calling, but some things must have a more…” he looked into her big blue eyes. Involuntarily, Walter gulped. “…personal approach.”

“Personal.” repeated Barbara, grateful she didn’t make the man wait. He seemed to be sweating out his conscience already.

“So I baked.”

“Got high?” she mused.

“No I mean - oh, hah, another joke.” he managed to laugh. It looked painful.

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

“No no it’s alright..” Barbara didn’t entirely believe him but nodded encouragingly as she leaned against her door frame.

“Where was I?”

“ _Not_ getting high.”

“Right! I baked. I mean…I couldn’t come empty handed…and I also felt like making something, and remembered that poppy comment from-“

“-When we watched the Wizard of Oz over the phone together.” Chipped in Barbara helpfully.

They both said in unison, Barbara a little more sing-songy in her voice, “Poppy fields forever~”

Walter smiled gratefully. “Yes. Precisely.”

Barbara, giving a merciful, sympathetic smile, stepped forward to press a kiss against his cheek. Her cupped hand lingering on his other cheek. “Come inside Walt. You look like you’re about to faint.”

Walter gave a small modest like bow, “I do, don’t I?”

She responded with another kiss. “Did you _actually_ make strawberry poppyseed muffins?”

“They’re not as nasty as it sounds.”

“You kidding? I’m intrigued.” Barbara said as they made their way to the kitchen. “Do they pair well with wine?”

“We can always find out.”

“Ah. Bless your sense of adventure.” smirked Barbara opening the cupboard for the glasses.

“But first I should apologize…and explain myself.”

“Oh, I know. I’m waiting.”

“Right.” Walter taped the countertop and adjusted the tray some. “Right. I. When.” For the briefest moment, looking at Barbara who playfully leaned against the counter with the two wine glasses in her hand. Watching as the last rays of evening sun filtered through the gauzy yellow fabric of her kitchen curtains. Walter Strickler wanted to expose everything. Bring the human up to speed.

Share everything; his duality, the two worlds, her son.

And he looked at her, so oblivious and teasing, smile unmarred with war. Unaware of the dangers he had put her son through. The cruelties he had been the cause of.

Years and centuries of cruelness.

The changeling never felt so small.

As much as he wanted to yell and tell this very human who had very quickly become something of such frightful importance to him. A friend among friends whom he never wondered if she would try to kill him. Whom he believed he could count on as an ally and partner in a number of adventures.

Instead Walter Strickler the changeling said, “The school. It, what happened really shook me up.”

“I had a feeling.” Nodded Barbara, placing the wine glasses aside to lean forward.

“I’m supposed to be there. _Should’ve_ been there. It’s a miracle nothing happened. But what if it did? What if the worst happened? Chemicals are no laughing matter.” Stricklander shook his head as if shaking a memory out of his brain. He counted to five and waited for the mental smell of explosives to leave him.

Barbara blinked, unsure what she was watching. She had a hunch, it was something she saw Grant do now and then. It also made Barbara think perhaps there was more to Walter’s mentioned short naval career than he had initially lead on.

She pinned the thought for later discussions. Now wasn’t the time.

With a sigh, the changeling continued, “And…that thought got me wellin- spiraling for a bit. Thinking of, the unthinkable…” Walter felt like a monster using such a situation as an excuse. “So after dealing with some rightfully pissed parents, I shut down for a few days…I tend to think better if I use my hands.” he unwrapped the tray revealing the muffins within. “hence these.”

Barbara smiled, taking his hands into her hands. Thumbing his knuckles slightly. “Well, I’m glad you try and use them for good.”

Stricklander flinched his hands away at her words. As if fearing the unseeable blood there would stain her.

At her confused look he feigned an incoming sneeze. “Excuse me.” was all he could think of saying when the sneeze didn’t happen.

“It must have been hard.” Barbara said, remembering her train of thought.

“All part of the job.” he reasoned.

“Doesn’t make it any less hard.”

Walter looked at her, and when Barbara went to place her hand on his again, the changeling didn’t flinch away. “…yes, suppose you’re right.”

"I'm sorry Walt. I wish I know what more to say..."

"Promise, it's enough." he assured kindly.

"Thank you for telling me."

They shared a smile, he squeezed her hand.

“It did hurt my feelings though. I _am_ going to be upfront about that.” Barbara said heading toward her mini wine rack. “Red or white?”

“White.”

“Like I know it was just three days. And your reasons are _completely_ valid. In fact I feel selfish about saying it. Maybe I’m oversharing.”

“No, no please..” Walter encouraged.

Barbara found her hands shaking some while trying to uncork the bottle. “But…pretending something is okay when something isn’t okay isn’t…a good basis for any kind of relationship…” However, the more she struggled with the bottle the more she felt determined to uncork it herself. “So I…I just wanted to be honest about how it made me feel. I’m sorry you went through that…or felt like you had to go through it alone.”

“May I?” said Walter watching Barbara’s continued struggle with the wine bottle.

“No no I…” she bit her lip, blushed, and, feeling herself potentially being a hypocrite to refuse, handed the bottle over.

Walter pressed a kiss to her hairline. “I’m sorry my anxious isolation made you feel…”

“Abandoned.” she said with a such weight.

Walter smiled, a little sadly, and uncorked the bottle, “But you’re right…” Barbara presented the two glasses for him to pour into. “I’m not alone.”

They smiled at each other. Awkwardly.

Barbara wanting her feelings to be known. Walter wanting to be understood.

“I hope I don’t come across as overreacting.”

“Not at all!” he said, starting to worry if he had given off the impression of thinking that. “You feel what you feel. It’s, human. I _am_ the one apologizing. Even if there is context to why. It is _first_ and _foremost_ an apology.”

Barbara bit her lip and thumbed the counter top, holding off on acting on the want to hug Walter. She nodded, her cheeks feeling very red.

“It was just three days.” Barbara tried to justify again. She avoided the patient look Walter was giving her. “Still three days of ‘radio silence’ after at least some form of conversation or show of life a day…it spooked me. I wasn’t ready I guess. I should have been, cause life happens…it just reminded me of…” Barbara trailed off, went to push her glasses back only to be reminded they were on her head. Instead she rubbed her eye sighed, and scratched her eyebrow. Walter sat the bottle down.

“I’ve had quite a number of disappearing acts in my life,” Barbara continued, “some avoidable some…not so much. And between what’s going on with Jim lately, James, a lot of unmentionable maybes and what ifs, even Grant…though he couldn’t help it…regardless, it’s something that’s always affected me, spooked me.” She laughed and placed her glasses back on her nose, noticed how filthy they were again, and pushed them back up on her head. “Even Jim knows that, that I don’t care if there’s an alien invasion happening.” she gestured her hands in an explosion that brought a small smile on Walter’s face. “Everyone needs space. I get that. Just, don’t leave me high and dry…find a way to contact me even if it’s emojis. Space is valid. Needed even. I just, hope we’re on the same page.”

“Well, as long as we’re open with each other…” the contradictory creature leaned forward, pressing his lip against her temple. Momentarily resting his forehead to hers. “I think we’ll be just fine.”

Walter never before wished he could open himself up like an emotional autopsy, but each interaction with Barbara he found himself more and more wanting, more and more willing.

“I like that…” her cheeks reddened more and more, “I like that _very_ much.” Unprepared to face the emotion she was feeling Barbara considered her wine, a dry wit was back in her voice, “Not to get _too_ psychoanalytical-“

“You do have the glasses for it.”

Barbara’s smile grew more, her shoulders feeling more relaxed. Walter smiled back. “Maybe it all started with Auntie Nim just up and leaving us one day. Mom was never the same after that.”

“Where did she go?”

“No one knows. My dad said ‘to die in Wales’ but…” she made a face that suggested she didn’t value her father’s opinion too highly. Not often at least.

“That’s oddly specific.”

“She was from Wales.”

Walter made a soundless, _Ah_ , and gave an expression that read along the lines of, _that would explain it_. Barbara looked lost in some memory, either of Auntie Nim or some other suggestion her father had made, no one knew. Either way, she looked far away.

Walter looked between her resting hand, and her eyes a few times before plucking the courage to rest his hand on hers. “It must have been hard for your mother. To lose a sister like that.”

Barbara smiled at the touch, and the consideration. She thumbed his hand in return. “They weren’t really sisters…it’s just what we called her, she was old enough to be my grandmother really.”

“Well, I _am_ sorry.”

“Really?” there was more humor in her tone. A suggestion she just wanted to hear him say it.

Walter opened his mouth, and halted himself from answering. Genuinely giving himself time to consider if he was really sorry. On any other occasion it’d be easy to write it off as a ‘yes’.

And yet, the changeling just couldn’t. Not without contemplating how genuine he was.

Looking into her starry face, the changeling realized, “Yes really.” he had such an urge to press his forehead to hers in a comforting way again. Instead the changeling placed that energy into nodding. “Very really. With my hand on the fire, really.”

“That’s…extreme.”

Walter didn’t take the time to try and remember if the phrase was English or not, and continued. “I really didn’t mean anything by it. Just sort of, caved in on myself.” Walter Strickler frowned. “With the spirit of being on the same page; I can get like that sometimes.” his forehead creased more. “In fact, I can’t promise it won’t happen again…I _can_ promise to try better, to not leave you feeling high and dry.”

Barbara squeezed his hand. She didn’t want a personality change, or for Walter to change who he was, and understood there was something deeper at play she didn’t entirely know about yet. It’s the effort to adapt that counted to her. She was about to say all this when Walter procured from his inner jacket pocket a heavy something wrapped in cloth.

“Which is why I brought you this.” unveiled the changeling.

“It’s ah…face.” she starred down at the pendant.

Walter snorted through his nose, rested the pendent on the counter, and gently took Barbara’s glasses to wipe and place back on her nose. “Oh… _oh_! Goodness.”

The pendent was old, centuries old, and astonishingly well kept. It was indeed a face. A woman’s face with a boar like nose, tusks, and fat lolling tongue. With wispy hairs that may or may not be alive, or may or may not be braided (the detail had faded with the years). The stone looked clay like, but was volcanic of origin with enough iron that placed the changeling on edge. Even while knowing it wasn’t pure iron.

“It’s no 21st century conforming beauty I know.” Walter admitted. “But then again the guardian of oracles and warder of malicious spirits doesn’t have to conform to anything.”

Barbara stared on, and leaned in closer, “It used to have more paint on it…look, there’s a bit a red…and there’s a pinch of green…maybe blue? It must have flaked off over the years.” Barbara shot up and blinked owlishly with twinkling eyes. _Nearly_ clocking Walter’s chin in the process. “In its time it must have been painted all over!! I can only imagine the colors. Maybe even color combinations unthought of before! Maybe it was super bright…I mean I’d have to revisit some of my old university text books to refresh on color pigments through history…How old is this?? Did you steal it from the museum or something?”

Walter noticed he had been holding his breath. Heart beating rapidly. Finally he exhaled, “No no haha it belonged to my mother. And my mother’s mother before her.” Walter paused, made a mathematical realization, and added, “And before her’s, and her’s, and her’s, and - it’s been in the family for a _while_.”

“Beautiful.” she said as a finger traced over the tusks.

Walter’s ears felt rather hot. He forced himself to shoo away a mental image of Barbara tracing a finger over his own tusks. “Yes. Well. You know I can be, well that I keep a _few_ superstitious traditions.”

“What? _You_??” she teased.

“Just for laughs of course.” he overlapped with a growing blush.

“Mr. set the salt down first to pass it at the table?”

“Even if they don’t make sense- I have a firm belief _that_ one started because salt was costly to come by, once.”

“Mr. don’t kill spiders or harm spider webs until _after_ sunset?”

“That way they collect the day’s money. There was a time superstition was considered part of old religions you know.”

“Mr. Iron wards off evil.”

“That I _can_ confirm is true.”

“Ah-huh, sure it does. And pixies are real.” she said with a giggle hugging him.

“They are, and they’re a damned nuisance.”

“Personal experience?”

“Very.” Walter confirmed seriously. “It only takes _one_ and the world can go tits up.”

Barbara snickered taking his words for more of his dry humor. Which Walter was always thankful for, it allowed him to be honest-even at the cost of not being believed.

Barbara rubbed his back with a sigh. “Thank you.”

“I haven’t even mentioned what the pendant supposedly does.”

Barbara shook her head into his shoulder, hugging tighter. “Thank you.”

Walter smiled, kissing into her hair. Ever so gently he nuzzled the side of her head as if, (as seen in cats dogs even some birds), he could hug her with his head too.

At some point Walter started to hear a sniffle.

“You…did this” she gestured vaguely to the muffins without distancing her arms from around Walter, “for me. Even bringing me your family’s- Oh and family’s important-” she looked up at him, eyes watery. “You don’t even have pictures of them in your house!”

In truth the changeling never considered the detail. At a loss of words he said, “They were lost in a fire-”

The smallest “eep!” escaped Barbara.

“the _pictures_ I mean!” he quickly added.

Walter soon found out this wasn’t the smartest of responses. As this didn’t help Barbara’s wave of emotion.

“I overreacted earlier. Oh I hate it when I overreact it reminds me of being like my-“ Barbara couldn’t bring herself to say it. Yet slowly found herself gravitating to the floor.

Walter, mildly panicked, and _fully_ concerned, crouched down with her. Giving soft “hey, hey”s along the way.

“There’s a part of me I’ve been trying to avoid showing you - I-” Walter stared, thumbing her damp cheek some. “I, don’t like myself sometimes.”

A ghostly smile came over the changeling’s face. Fondness, sympathy, empathy, all this rushed and swelled his pained heart. His breath shook as her arms drew Walter close.

He tightly held her in turn.

Barbara felt her defenses itch to raise. Half expecting a ‘what is there to not like?’ or ‘there’s nothing to hate yourself for.’ or some other dismissive phrase.

Instead Walter held Barbara tighter. “That’s alright.” Walter shifted from a crouch to sitting and enveloped her in his arms. “That’s perfectly alright.”

“Yeah?” she sniffled, feeling calmed by the truth in his words. “Not something someone usually finds alright.” she felt a little childish to add.

“It’s a big hard world, and among all the other challenges in it, our own selves can be the biggest obstacle of all. It varies from person to person, sure, but…at least what I’ve observed, we’re all on the same journey of self acceptance.” his smile faltered, though his voice remained consoling. “One way or another.”

Walter rested his head against hers so she could rest her weight and chin on him. She did so, and rubbed her teary eyes against him while his hand cupped the back of her head.

“Those are some, pretty sensible words, Walt.”

“I try.”

Then at last she said, “I shouldn’t be getting this worked up.”

“Who gives a toss? Should is an irrational word anyway.”

Barbara gave a snotty laugh which caused Walter to laugh as well.

They stayed floor level and in each other’s arms for some time. Walter’s shoulder more than once turned into a nose wipe.

He didn't mind.

In their embrace Barbara was able to look behind Walter, and spotted the calendar. Not that she could see the date from where she was, but it was enough to remind Barbara. A long groan followed.

Walter, thinking Barbara needed to vent more, rubbed her back.

“So _that’s_ why.” she said annoyed.

Walter paused in his back rubbing. “What’s why?”

Barbara leaned back, thumbing her nose with a sniff while feeling _moderately_ foolish, “Well for starters I’m not pregnant so, yay there. Though we’ll know for _sure_ sure in, oh, half a week? Maybe less?”

“Okay…?” Barbara made a face, and the clues started to come together to Gunmar’s personal aide de camp, the great tactician, the super spy, “Oh! _Oh_.”

Another, _oh_ , crossed Walter’s mind as the changeling considered what this would mean to him and the binding spell when Barbara’s period does come.

“MmmhhHHmm.” she said lightly bonking her head against his shoulder, her nose still a little red. “You know I really hate how it’s turned into some ~thing~ about women getting emotional.”

“Their periods?”

“Yeah, I mean, it can happen. There’s actual chemicals-“

A smirk creeped in Walter’s features as he dramatically splayed his arms while singing in the tune of Charles Aznavour’s ‘She’, “Cheeeeemicals is a thing that happens to aaaaaallll it effects the braaaaaaaaaiiiin so! - you’re not alone.”

Her head went straight into her open palm. “Oh my god.”

“Iiiiiit’s okay to feel wonky and straaaaange, it’s okay it’s just your braaaaaain~”

“I will _pay_ you to stop.” Barbara half laughed pinching Walter’s chin in a way that puckered his lips.

“It’s okay hoooormooones get in the waaaaay.” Walter still managed to sing through puffy ‘fish lips’.

“ _Please_ tell me this isn’t from a video from your school’s Sex-ed classes.”

“You’re just brilliantly huuuuumaaaaaan that ~waaaaaaaaaaaay~”

“Your lack of yes or no is really discomforting.”

“~OOOOOOHHH!- OOrmPH!” The note in the tune turned into a hum against Barbara’s lips as she attempted to kiss the teacher into submission.

Unfortunately she didn’t realize the full force she went against Walter, and found herself on top of the changeling as well.

His note jumping between being vocalized and hummed against her lips as she laughed. The vibrations of the hum tickling her lips as well.

When Walter ran out of air holding his note, Barbara lifted herself ever so slightly.

He grinned, dramatically inhaled, Barbara made a ‘ _don’t you dare_ ’ face, and started the note again. Though this time the note was choppy as not even Walter could stop himself from laughing. Especially when Barbara’s halting laughing - kisses started to turn into a raspberry.

With Walter’s arms around her they rolled to the side without separating from each other’s mouths. Foreheads bonking every now and then.

This only added to the hilarity. Somehow. As the pair of them untangled to lay on their backs and cackle to the ceiling.

Minutes of this occurred, and finally, settling down, they each sighed contentedly.

Walter tilted his head to look at the red cheeked Barbara, eyes flecked with tears, though tears for other reasons. He folded his hands over his stomach, and refused to stop grinning. Not that he would if he could.

Barbara also turned her head to look at Walter. His face rosy to his ears, the crow’s feet in his laughing eyes crinkled contentedly.

She reached her hand over to take his, and gave it a firm thankful squeeze.

Walter squeezed back.

Smiling at each other.

Nothing more really needed to be said as they shared a look of fond emotion.

After a bit of quiet, Barbara released Walter’s hand and gave a firm exhale. Wafting her hands as though expelling whatever remaining funky clunky vibes remained.

Though, no matter the laughter, somethings never leave. And that’s okay too.

“Alright. There. Autopsy complete.” Before Walter could say anything Barbara held her hand up. “Just an old joke.” then as an explanation to the old joke she added, “Got off the phone with Anna earlier.”

“Oh? How is she? The new crimes division treating her well?”

“Too well, she can’t find time to get out of town.” She explained while sitting up.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah well, she’s always lived for her work.”

“Someone has to.” he cracked.

If Barbara didn’t nearly loose her glasses before, she nearly lost them now for how quickly she started laughing. “Ooff! I’m telling her that. She’ll _hate_ it!”

Walter shook his head in amusement.

“In the meantime.” Barbara continued, getting up and offering a hand to help Walter up as well. “How about some wine?”

“A solid idea.”

He passed Barbara her glass, and the two of them clinked their glasses.

“To being more open. _Communicative_.” 

“Yes.” Barbara blushed. “To trying to make it work.”

They clinked their glasses again.

The kitchen light reflected off the swirl of the pale gold white wine. Standing in front of one another, a glass each with the gorgon pendent between them on the counter, an observer might think the picture of them was a good reenactment of the Tarot Card; Two of Cups.

Barbara’s attention returned to the pendant. “You never did get to say the superstition around the, erm, pendant.”  
“The gorgon?” Walter’s hand inched closer to the pendant. Despite it not being pure iron, it still gave off a static like tingle to the changeling. Though it wasn’t painful. The changeling was able to turn it with his bare hands to face him. “It is a symbol of power and used as a proxy of protection.” Walter’s hand quickly shied away.

“Aren’t gorgons…villainous? Story-wise?” She swirled her wine, thoughtfully watching the liquid, “Then again there’s the tragedy of Medusa’s backstory.”

Walter nodded. “Depends on the story, depends on the angle.” he took another sip of the wine before continuing, “It is- _was_ typical to put the image of the gorgon on soldier’s armor’s and shields and on pendants or decorative tokens, even placed around houses…or tombs. All under the premise that no matter what evil comes to face the soldier, the wearer, the house, or sarcophagi it’ll be the gorgon that is the most feared creature in the room. Need something to give a scare? Get something scarier.”

“Interesting.” went Barbara pinching her own chin while inspecting the pendant more.

The pendant had considerable weight to it, and was cool to the touch. The circumference taking up half her hand. Passing her thumb lightly over the design she noticed a section of the ‘serpentine hair’ to be smoother than the rest. As if worn with wishful rubbing.

“In theory anyway.” said Walter, having to glance away at how fondly she was smiling into the pendant. With a rub of his earlobe Walter noticed his ears were warm. “All the same. Should I have another…well, should I distance myself again and don’t respond back in time. I hope the pendant can help where I can’t.”

Barbara’s tiny hand turned Walter’s head gently towards her. “Do you believe it?” she asked looking up into his face.

Walter was reminded of the expression Jim had when the Trollhunter asked if he believed Shigir to be real. It must be a Lake thing. This earnest wonder in their questions.

Except Barbara’s eyes were as wide and mesmerizing as the sea. There was a force of nature behind Barbara he could never quite pinpoint. A something that barreled through defenses and predesigned answers.

Walter reminded himself to breathe.

“Yes.” he heard himself saying. Then, as if coming to his senses, added, “No harm in it.”

Barbara circled her hand around the pendant, as if sealing a deal. She turned and moved her hair out of the way to reveal her neck. Silently requesting help to put it on.

Walter swallowed, and obliged. Fingers a little fumbley with the antique hook.

“Don’t think I can wear it in the theater if I have to go perform surgery. Shame. Of all places in need of a protector to ward off evil…”

“More scare off, than ward off.” he kindly corrected, pressing a kiss into her hair when done. “And I have a sneaky belief _you_ are the scariest thing in the operating room.”

“And you know this cause…it takes a monster to know a monster?”

The changeling gave a bitter laugh, “The things I can do with a pen? Frightful. Beware the pencil pushers. Though I’m suggesting at something I’ve heard my students mention frequently; beast mode.”

“Ppppfff. Alright, I can dig it.”

“Superstition is only a cushion, it’s the will that makes it happen.”

“You _are_ the authority on it.”

“It’s something my grandmother used to say.”

Barbara bit her lip, her finger tracing the lower end of the pendant. She realized how easily her finger found again the smoothest and worn part of the pendant. “Were you, close?”

“In our own way.” he smiled, fondly remembering her sharp wit and mischievous grin.

Barbara nodded, and lowered her hand away from the pendant. “How does it look?”

He considered her kind face, and then the snarling gorgon just below her clavicles. “Ghastly.” he mused.

She clicked her tongue and gave Walter a small mirthy shove. “Good. Then I know it’ll work.”

They drank some more wine and chatted tad more until Barbara brought up, after noticing it while looking down a few times. “I think there’s something written on the rim of your pendant.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” She leaned her head back as far as she could while squinting, then leaned forward in a presenting gesture with the pendant in hand. “See?”

“Ah. Hold on.” Walter, with a cat like grin, made a show of pulling out a glasses case from his inner jacket. They were the same from his time in Algiers.

“Whooahohao!” Barbara started. Then, when they were placed on Walter’s face, she squealed “Noooooo! Those _glasses_!!”

“I was waiting for a chance to show them off, since you asked about them.”

“-on your face!” she said overlapping. Shock and cheer mixing delectably.

“Old I know. They age me some-“ Walter started to pull them off. Barbara gently pushed them back on.

“No don’t! Please.” Sealing the request with a kiss on the side of his nose. “You know what they make you look like?”

Barbara didn’t give Walter much time to respond. As she continued Walter found himself, yet again, unable to stop smiling. “A 70’s reporter! No - journalist. No-! An anthropologist!”

“Also from the 70’s?”

“Maybe. I haven’t thought about it that thoroughly.”

Walter hummed giving his head a little wiggle.

Barbara gasped, discovering the most important realization of all. “You know what they make you look?”

“What?”

Barbara leaned forward and draped ever so slightly over the counter. Back exquisite. Voice sultry as she proclaimed. “Hot.” with a never ending grin.

Walter had to catch his breath.

Soon after, with heart racing and a wily smile, the changeling scooped Barbara up into his arms. Filling her neck, shoulders, hands, any skin in reach with an array of kisses and nips that sent Barbara equaling and kicking her legs joyfully.

Her arms wrapped loosely around his neck.

Perusal, after much maltreatment to his neck over the centuries, the changeling stiffened his shoulders. Though once Barbara started kissing and administering the start of many soon to be potential hickies, Walter’s shoulder’s relaxed.

Though now he was stiff for other reasons.

She relented when she noticed her feet starting to risk touching the floor. Barbara thought she probably imagined it, but his eyes almost glinted as they fluttered.

The changeling retaliated with a kiss so deep they might as well take up snorkeling.

In the briefest of pauses, panting while doing so, Barbara trailed her eyes to the ceiling with a meaningful look. Looking beyond the ceiling and to the bed they could use.

Whatever engraving was on the pendant was forgotten, put aside for later discussions.

 

_Quando sei qui con me, questa stanza non ha più pareti / Ma alberi, alberi infiniti_

 

Barbara, nude, glorious, and with a post coital pinky hue passed Walter, equally nude, coitally pink, and glorious, one of the strawberry poppyseed muffins that they squirreled away upstairs.

Walter hummed, swallowing the last of his wine, “Thank you.”

Barbara kicked her legs to the tempo of the song playing from Walter’s spotify playlist. “Ooh I like her. Who is she?”

He leaned to the side resting his wine glass and checking his phone. Despite already knowing the answer. “Mina.”

“Just Mina?”

“Just Mina.”

She hummed and swayed her legs side to side. “Any idea what she’s saying?”

Walter did have an idea, a very good idea. His mind translated the next words in the song, _when you’re here close to me this violet roof- No, no it doesn’t exist. I see the sky above us_.

However, the changeling found it prudent to keep the known number of how many languages he knew to a minimum, and thus responded, “No idea. Something about the sky?”

Barbara hummed again, pressing a few kisses into Walter’s arm while listening on. “Oh! Harmonica, I did catch harmonica.”

“Harrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmoooooonnnnnica.” Walter purred into her bare shoulder blade. Letting the vibrations of the hum vibrate against her. She leaned into this, and rolled her neck in a very pleased way.

Barbara flicked a crumb off her cheek with a dewy smile. The other cheek puffed like a chipmunk. “I’m surprised.”

“At how good the muffins are? Me too.”

“Not just that - oo lot of strawberry in this one - usually it’s my son who makes apology themed meals.”

“Being a _dashing_ fly on the wall of that conversation _might_ have influenced me. Yes.”

Barbara hummed into another bite, giving a satisfied wiggle while doing so.  
“It pains me to see you hate it.” Walter joked.

Swallowing Barbara pulled him towards her and kissed the changeling. Flecks of muffin crumbs passed from cheek to cheek to sheets.

Pulling back, and twirling Walter’s hair Barbara smiled, “The consensus, especially on Anna’s end-“

“Anna?” Walter squinted and guessed, “Were you two on the phone _right_ until-“

“-you walked up? Yes.” Barbara kissed a “ssh” into his mouth. She had to drag herself away so not to lose her train of thought. “The consensus is to bring wine next time.”

“Did Anna say this while draining a corpse?” he chuckle panted.

“Not this time, no.”

“And your thoughts?” he purred.

With a well hooked leg and wrapping arms, Barbara pulled Walter close again. She kissed/collected in her mouth a lasting muffin crumb that was living on the corner of Walter’s mouth. “Either is fine. Though,” in one graceful move Barbara pushed Walter to his back as she straddled him. “if next time you _do_ bring wine-“

“Red, love?” He guessed correctly. The _love_ practically falling passed his mouth so _naturally_.

Walter himself didn’t notice it until Barbara blinked, barely believing it herself. Neither of them had ever used or hinted at pet names. Especially the ‘L’ word.

She cupped his face with growing rosy cheeks. “What did you say?”

“I, ah,” Walter licked his lips, suddenly at a loss for words. Her hair a strawberry magma, her eyes an untamable ocean, her skin a flesh so soft - yet endurable. Formidable. In body and spirit. “ _Love_.” he said again in full naturalism.

Barbara moved against him encouragingly. Languidly lowering herself.

“Love.” he heard himself breath again. “A red, love?”

“Very red.” Barbara cooed, gifting deeply soft honey inspired kisses.

“Yes ma’am.” Walter breathed into her mouth.

_And there will be no grand choirs to sing._

_No chorus will come in, no ballad will be written._

_This will be entirely forgotten_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *( Japanese: Jiji - old man, or codger) 
> 
> **( Lo preso - I got it! )
> 
> ***(The Green Knight is a character in many Shigir stories who appears as a sort of Boogyman of sorts. )
> 
> ****( reference to Mitski’s A Horse Named Cold Air lyrics. Which by all accounts is such beautiful poetry for these two characters. Perhaps more so for Angor who is literally without a soul right now. Yet with the talk of reverting, or returning and realizing you haven’t changed all that much from who you were, and how you acted, if you squint, could fit Strickler- Stricklander as well;
> 
> ‘A lake with no fish  
> Is the heart of a horse  
> Named Cold Air  
> Who, when young  
> Would run like a storm  
> They would say…
> 
> [OoooOo]
> 
> I thought I’d traveled a long way  
> But I had circled  
> The same old sin’ )) 
> 
> *****(neftś - grandson or nephew) 
> 
> ******( The slight, wordplay here is that the Aesir are a type of Norse gods, whereas Aisar is believed to be the Etruscan plural for gods. I thought it was interesting the words seemed so similar. 
> 
> Then again the Etruscans were known to trade with many varying peoples. They traveled far, and even fought off pirates. Either called sea people, or tower people. Being a merchant based nation as well as being known to build villages on the large Tuscan hills. Let it be known I’m going off of my own Italian knowledge and a lot of educated guessing. There's still a lot of research to be done, and as much as I'd love to claim my research thorough - I'm not an actual anthropologist or expert haha )
> 
> The end quote is from Florence + the Machine's "No Choir"


	10. Friends Will Be Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If I could begin to be  
> Half of what you think of me  
> I could do about anything  
> I could even learn how to love
> 
> When I see the way you act  
> Wondering when I'm coming back  
> I could do about anything  
> I could even learn how to love  
> Like you"
> 
> \- Love Like You (End Credits), Rebecca Sugar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also known as "Ch. XXX in which the author gets horny on main."
> 
> That being said there are some /borderline?/ explicit moments in this chapter. For those who might be uncomfortable with the areas that get, a little too on the explicit side I've marked them with a bolded (*) at the start and end. That way those who wish to skip those moments can if they so choose!
> 
> In the meantime, remember to keep it mindful and sexy friends!

 

ACT I  
[Continued]

Friends Will Be Friends

 

_There’s a gentleman wearing 1700’s British Navy attire. He’s looking over construction plans of a ship._

_To the person next to him, also of the Navy, he mentions something in an accent so thick it’s a miracle it could be understood.  
It was something about a cannonball…maybe._

_All the same, there was something familiar about this Navy Officer’s hair. But the officer’s face is never seen._

_The ship groans and a whistle is heard in the wind._

_The two officers trade looks and notes and go above deck._

_The one with familiar hair whistles some commands once he reaches topside._

_Orders barked, and the sails quickly begin the process of being tied. Those sails already tied, double checked. Another gust of icy strong wind sent the ship groaning with a spray of salt water._

_The somewhat recognizable officer looks to the sky, as if out of habit, and guesses how fast the wind is going._

_The obvious answer is: too fast for sails._

_The observer also looks up, and watches the sailors climb up the mast, slip slightly and climb again. No birds are in the sky._

_Though there is an eerily still pelican. The only creature and person who notices the observer. That ever acknowledges her presence. That watches. The beady black eyes glint._

_The ship creaks again, and that fickle Mistress that is the Sea (or in this case, the ocean) churns and rocks the ship all the more._

_It starts to happen so fast, the pace around the ship picked up, yet still synchronized. The sailors make for the main mast, towards the safety lines. Those tying the sails already with their lines._

_More orders are whistled, they’re barely heard with the coming rain. The rain starts to fall hard, and slants in the wind._

_The observer, the one who has been primarily following the officer with the familiar hair, yet never sees the officer’s face, is unaffected by the coming storm and the ship’s commotion. In fact, no one seems to notice the observers presence. No matter how much they try and get the familiar haired officer’s attention._

_To look out._

_As the observer notices a sailor trying to close their distance with the familiar haired officer. A glint of something silver._

_Yet no matter how many times the observer cries out, the officer hears only the wind, and waves._

_With an inhuman strength the officer grabs an unsteady cabin boy who had gotten tangled in one of the ropes and pushes them, ordering them to stay below deck._

_The sailor, a continental spy uses this chance._

_The observer tries to call again, alas the familiar haired officer doesn’t hear and is run through with a dagger and thrown overboard._

_The officer’s body nearly breaking a bone with how harshly it splats against the water’s surface._

_The observer shrieks and jumps in after the officer without hesitation._

_The brine taking them both._

_Blood greets salty waters, calling the attention of who knows what creatures. Probably sharks. The shock of the officer’s body being in such cold water starts seeing his lungs._

_Thus the officer starts to sink, leaving a trail of bubbles and blood in the water for the observer to follow. The observer pushed themselves to swim as hard as their limbs would take them. Nearly catching up with the officer. Only halting in surprise when spotting, from over the officer’s shoulder, none other than Barbara Lake._

_Barbara looks like a drowned corpse that has yet to start bloating. Her clothes billowing with the oceans current._

_The officer, in his sinking trajectory unintentionally hits their head ever so slightly against Barbara’s._

_The officer’s head starts to move on its own, regaining consciousness as he tries to reach out to Barbara. Concern in their body language, of finding someone else overboard. Shaking her ever so slightly._

_Above, beyond the water’s surface, lightning cracks an arch through the sky in such a way that even parts of the ocean was illuminated._

_Barbara’s hair slowly starts to come undone. Becoming like slow moving jellyfish tendrils. Billowing, fanning out looking almost alive, serpentine even._

_The officer says something, but only bubbles escape, almost gagging at the water filling the officer’s lungs. It is something the observer fines painful to watch. Especially with the blood still oozing out of the officer._

_The observer cries. Like a chorus of muted wind instruments and violins sounding a melody._

_-CHANGE-_

_Simultaneously Barbara’s eyes open on their own emitting a light from within so strong it envelopes the officer completely. If the light had a voice of its own, it would be screaming. So bright is that light, it’s nearly impossible to catch the flash of green that followed._

_And just like that, the officer isn’t an officer - isn’t human - but a horned being made of stone. A very much alive stone._

_“Well, at least the bleeding’s stopped.” said the observer._

_The stone creature turns to look over his shoulder. Finally realizing the observer’s presence._

_But just before the stone face could be seen—_

 

Barbara Lake gasped awake. Her heart still racing, her breath still unsure if she could breath. Shaky, and shivering. Her body still remembered what it was like to nearly drown.

Arms moved around Barbara pulling her back towards a chest that was warmer than she anticipated.

A part of Barbara wondered if she was still dreaming. That this was some disembodied entity dragging her under water.

“Just a dream.” Barbara heard herself say.

Competent hands pressed in a non sexual way against her chest. Adding a reassuring pressure like a weighted blanket.

“A dream.” came Walter’s gentle voice.

Barbara’s breathing slowed, the weighted pressure of Walter’s hands and being pressed against his chest was soothing - comforting.

Finally after a five minutes of deep breaths, occasional hiccups and slow exhales, Barbara sighed. A long long sigh.

When her hands touched Walter’s, the weighted pressure released.

Walter made to remove his hands, she stopped him. Squeezing them ever so tightly.

Quietly he squeezed her hands back.

She retracted her fingers a bit, only to play with Walter’s palm. Pressing her fingertips against his, smoothly opening hands in tandem. Simple idle small gestures that meant the world to Barbara. Little fingers tracing over the creases of the changeling’s palm before folding her fingers between his.

The human marvel named Barbara Lake could never guess how many weapons those same hands held in their lifetime. No matter the number of times she grazed those calluses, or felt his fingertips, or thumbed his palms.

Barbara turned to face Walter. She looked at his fleshy human face. Held it in her hands thumbing his gaunt cheekbones.

She smiled - he smiled, and Barbara hugged her thanks.

A strange prickly part of Barbara’s brain wondered what Walter would look like in his merchant naval uniform, and had such an urge to check his sides for potential stab wounds.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Walter offered, pressing a kiss into her hair.

Revitalized, Barbara said, “Yes actually!” and rolled onto her back. “It was so - so vivid. Like I was there, but wasn’t.” Barbara sat up her hands moved in excitable gestures as she spoke. “And I was following this guy around and I could see myself. And I watch myself turn this guy into stone and- It was like I was there - but wasn’t!”

“Whoa - whoa!” Walter propped himself up, resting his head in his hand. “Hang on. Do you remember where, _there_ , was?”

“The ocean!” turned Barbara, her very same oceanic eyes locking with Walter’s. “On a ship! Like an old-timey ship with masts and sails. Revolutionary sailors in blue!” went Barbara, who assumed all British uniforms were red, including their Navy uniforms. When in fact, that wasn’t the case.

Walter opened his mouth, as if to make an anecdote then decided to let it go. They were speaking of dreams after all, and perhaps they really were Revolutionary sailors. Walter wouldn’t know.

Not that Barbara gave him much room to talk.

It was certainly a curious dream, certainly more vivid than some of the others she talked about. Yet the more and more Barbara described her dream, the more and more a strange itch would bother Walter Strickler’s mind. In some far reach. Lost in a fog. It made the phantom feelings of his horns annoyingly distracting.

As Barbara spoke the gorgon pendant bounced near her clavicle with her excited and animated retelling. Walter narrowed his eyes at it accusingly.

Logically, dreams are culminations of information both old and new. Barbara knew Walter had a small Navy career, and they discussed gorgons and medusa the night before. So the incident Barbara was describing could be completely incidental.

It isn’t uncommon for people to get stabbed, especially in revolutionary military environments. Barbara was talking about the wrong side anyways.

Regardless, it felt _horridly_ like some sort of déjà vu.

Walter swallowed thickly, fearful to ask, “What did the stone figure look like?”

Barbara’s eyes slid to look at Walter. _Really_ look at him. It could be the changeling’s paranoia, but he felt so observed, so found out in that moment. Watching her thoughts race through her maritime eyes.

Finally Barbara admitted, “I have no idea.” and she meant it. She couldn’t remember for the life of her.

Walter chuckled a release of nerves, even going so far as to snort. Not at all understanding why he felt so relieved. Barbara started to chime in a few chuckles as well. Playfully pushing Walter to knock him off his prepped up position.

After a good long stretch Barbara began to unhook the pendant from her neck, placing it on her bedside table on top of the Watership Down book. “I’ll be back.” she announced before making her way to the bathroom.

Walter spiritedly wiggled his fingers, his evergreen eyes following her as she left. The spirited wiggling, and smirk dropped once the door closed. Rolling to her side of the bed towards her bedside table.

The changeling glared at the pendant with suspicion. Wanting to believe it was the pendant that inspired the dream. Logically, he wasn’t wrong. Logically speaking.

Wanting to test a theory, his hands flexed and retracted over the snarling gorgon face. An onlooker would probably think Walter was fearful the gorgon would spring to life and snap his fingers. Though the truth was, he was mentally preparing himself to touch the pendant.

The changeling took up the pendant. His fingers and hands instantly feeling a rush of mild static tingling. Thankfully, it wasn’t pure iron. Most of the previous night’s endeavors would have been tricky if it was pure iron. Though then, the static tingle was rather enjoyable.

The changeling reprimanded his thoughts to stay on track.

Walter sniffed the pendant, licked it, went as far as to listen to it from both sides. For a wild illogical leap, the changeling bit it, though it only reminded him of his dental appointment later.

All things considered, the pendant was just a pendant.

He couldn’t detect any sort of lingering magic that might have latched itself onto the gorgon pendant while it was kept within his school’s inner changeling office.

While rubbing the grooves of the pendant a thought came to Walter. Turning the pendant to hawkishly eye its rim, Walter searched for the engraved bit Barbara mentioned the previous night.

“Ah-ha!” went the changeling when he found it, and “oh.” was all he said when he read the engraving.

It was only a wonkily carved ‘protection’ in Etruscan.

Moderately annoyed the changeling placed the pendant back on the book and waved his hands as if trying to cool them. Occasionally blowing on his fingertips and tapping them together so to help the lingering static like feeling to pass.

The changeling was resigned to consider it all a strange coincidence and to start collecting his clothes.

“So what do you have planned for the day?” asked Barbara when she returned to the room.

“Going to pop by the school, then head off to my dental appointment. Get that crown finally looked at.” his mind wandered briefly to his chin’s collisional impact against the Lake Family’s dinner table thanks to a certain Trollhunter. Rubbing his chin in the process.

“Does it hurt?” Asked Barbara with only a bra, underwear, and shirt on.

It didn’t. Not that, that stopped the changeling from being a dork. Walter smiled fondly at her, cupping her cheek, “Not when I do this.” and kissed her. She placed her hand over his. Leaning in all the more with an upturned smile.

She hummed into his lips contentedly, and pulled back to smirk, “Ah, the ol’ ‘kiss the boo-boo’ trick.”

“Oh for that-“ Walter stretched his mouth comically. Pointed to the molar in his mouth, barely managing to say, “Yuh-d haft tuh rully git hin thar.”

Barbara snickered into her hand, and feigned making a face, “Not with that morning breath.”

Walter, suddenly feeling very self conscious, with the knowledge that trolls don’t take to dental hygiene tugging his mind, covered his mouth. Eyes wide and apologetic, “Really?”

If this had happened during Barbara and Walter’s third or second interaction, she would have thought Walter was still going along with the joke. Though by now, she could tell the serious worry on the principal.

She gently lowered his hand from his mouth. “That, I’m sorry Walt, that was a joke. I didn’t mean, I mean _everyone_ has morning breath but it wasn’t, it’s not rancid.” Biting her lip Barbara decided the fair thing to do was to rise up to her tip toes and breath on his nose. So he could smell her own morning breath, too.

It certainly brought a smile to the changeling’s lips, the earlier sillier mood returning.

With Barbara still so close, and on her tip toes, Walter wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground. Tilting his head back with a, “Whew-eee!”

He tapped her forehead in thanks, and pressed a kiss into her mouth. Giggling and humming into each other’s lips and mouths like the two bad morning breath creatures that they were.

Barbara lifted her leg behind her, and trailed her hand from Walter’s shoulders to his cheeks.

She grazed her hands around his head, combing her fingers through his wonky pompadour. A wondrous massage of the scalp that eased the phantom lingering of Walter’s horns into a far, far off distance.

The changeling exhaled into Barbara’s neck, grazing his teeth now and then. Barbara’s toes curled and flexed and curled again. A breathy feeble, “Walt.” tumbling past her lips as he drew his attention to her Adam’s apple. 

Desperate to make Walter equally flustered, Barbara moved her hips and rubbed her lowered leg against him.

The responding moaning vibration from Walter tingled against Barbara’s neck. With an inhale; Barbara’s hands floated away from Walter’s scalp. And an exhale; Barbara wrapped her legs around his waist.

“Walt.” she somehow managed to say again, “What time is it?”

The changeling responded with a lick at the dip in her neck, and an incoherent moan-y sound against her clavicles.

“Walt, I mmean it.” she said, red cheeked through her partially bit lip. 

He gifted a deep kiss at the base where her lower jaw connects with her neck, and lower earlobe. Breathing her in with an overcome desperation, and adoration he wasn’t sure where it was coming from.

That’s a lie. The changeling knew where. In a roundabout way, he even said it last night.

Barbara’s fingers touched the corner of his mouth, and slowly spread them until she cupped his cheek. Guiding his head to tilt and look at her.

“Love?”

“The time,” she exhaled slowly, rosy cheeked and pink all over, attempting to control her breathing, “do we have..?” A mischievous smile crept over her features. Barbara’s eyes suggestive in their silent question.

A humorous expression took over Walter’s face. Thumbing her underwear. He glanced at the clock with a growing smile. And playfully pulled back the side of her underwear as an answered; ‘ _yes_ ’.

Barbara lowered her head saying, “Thank go-“ cutting herself off by kissing him.

 **(*)** Gradually they fell back into bed together.

The changeling made a show of teasing Barbara’s shirt and bra off of her. Until Barbara’s flustered voice said, “Saah-saliva marks.” cuing the removal of said shirt, and the toying of her bra.

With slow trailing fingers starting from Barbara’s jawline, and an added soft thumbing below her naval and hip, Walter continued his exploration of Barbara’s lower regions and beyond.

Fingers set to play Chopin with her insides. Her toes setting an erratic tempo with their curling and uncurling. Their hums and moans, a harmony. Though, Barbara soon started to ooze a melody with, “Ooah, od, _Ohou_ ~”

Walter’s ears burned redder than Barbara’s hair. The sheets a testament to their durability against Barbara’s twisting hand.

The changeling’s fingers at her lower regions started to ease out of the languid Chopin and start a transitional experience of the Jazz Age within.

Her breath hitched, and her voice escaped like a cymbal.

It was non-metaphoric music to Walter’s ears. The sound of her, look of her, _her_ , sent delightful shivers down his spine.

At the sight of Barbara rubbing her palm and fingers against her own mouth - as she craved the sensational use of her lips, Walter leaned forward. Quickly finding that same dainty hand brush against his own lips, guiding him into a shared heated kiss.

Barbara encouraged Walter not to stop his metaphorical piano playing within her with rolling motions of her hips. A word that had the potential of being a panted “please” was interrupted by Barbara vocalizing an A# into Walter’s mouth. She bit her lip, and bit his lip.

Despite starting to squirm a dance, Barbara tried to reach with her hand. “I, Iyam, aye, aah. need - Waaant to..” Walter stopped every movementto listen, and Barbara released a long exhale and pointed to Walter’s own lower regions. Able to express how it didn’t seem fair she was getting all the attention at the moment, born from an insecure spark that crept up now and again; the impulse to always be giving, with a, “not fair~”

Walter took her hand in his, kissing into her pulse. If he could kiss and manage to project the physical embodiment of adoration and affection he would.

“May I do this for you?” The changeling desperately wanted to give. To give selfishly, yes _selfishly_. To take joy in her receiving. To not expect anything. It wasn’t about him right now. “Please?”

Her hand gently spread like a warm marmalade against his cheek. Sweetly caressing his face, trailing it near his neck then back to cup his cheek.

Walter leaned in to her kind movements. His head following her hand as she guided his face closer to hers again.

Her lips parting with a whispered, “Yes.” Barbara kissed him so deeply Walter had to place his hand on the bed for added help balancing. “I’d like that.” she rested her forehead against his, her thumb resting on his lower lip, rubbing it slowly, “I’d like that _very_ much.”

The changeling kissed her thumb, kissed her soft fleshy palm, and pulse. He blazed a trail of soft, wet, kisses down her body.

From under her chin, her Addam’s apple, her clavicles (especially her clavicles, taking a detour to gift it extra attention).

The kissing trail continued down Barbara’s body, occasionally back tracking to give areas more attention and care. Like the space between her breasts, just below her breasts, her naval, and stretch marks.

Meanwhile his other hand returned to position, like an orchestra musician, returning to the instrument therein.

However it wasn’t the Jazz Age that restarted. He did not pick up where he left off, but rather started anew.

The warm up piece was done, violin strings hot, bows well rosined, and now the concerto could begin.

He looked up at Barbara like a musician waiting for their conductor. She ran her fingers through his hair, now damp with sweat, and nodded.

This piece was to be a sonata. A sonata andante espressivo in G major. (Debussy would be proud).

Which proved to be rather tantalizing to the already sensitive Barbara. Who’s fingers curled Walter’s hair, who’s hand occasionally combed through her own hair, to help hold her head up while her mind hazed splendidly.

Walter, a rather ambidextrous changeling, used all instruments at his disposal. Not only was there the piano, not only was there the violin, but also - with an enamored hungry look in his eyes that watched as Barbara arched her back, and her chest rise and fall, as well as redden almost as much as her cheeks and hair - the cello in the form of Walter lowering his head between her legs, as if it were his last meal.

He ate as all last meals should be eaten, while savoring. Savoring every sauce, every flavor, every drizzle. The bowl was licked clean, from rim to base.

From there, things became espressivo, indeed. As Barbara sounded an “O!” so beautiful all the oboes and flutes in the world should be jealous.

Barbara saw stars on her ceiling, her hips giving the occasional buck, or languid up down motion.

Her hips arched and rocked like the deep ocean waves Walter spotted in her blue eyes. And Walter, old sailor that he was, dared not fight the waves. Knew the waters must be respected.

He continued to give, to play out his cello violin and piano, as if gifting offerings to one of his ‘ family’s ‘long dead gods. Humming olde hymns into her, sacred prayers that followed with Barbara, head back and radiant, calling out, “My go- O-!“

Together they either spoke in a language that had yet to be invented, or a language long since dead.

Needless to say, the offerings were well received. This was felt by the constriction of Barbara’s core, and her knees tightening around Walter. The alter which she, deified, was being placed, and the arch of her back rising higher, as she reached and gasped at the edge.

But Barbara was a different kind of goddess. She had no desires for pedestals, for promises. As beautiful as the sonata was, as wonderful as it was making her feel. She knew that together, they could compose something more.

Let it be known, this wasn’t born from the earlier ‘impulse to always give’, the spark of ‘insecurity that was’, had retracted back to that dark space in the mind where all insecurity dwelt, a _while_ ago.

She reached her hand, and feverishly stretched her fingers. “Aahlt” was the most she could manage to say his name in her rising fever.

He glanced up, noticing the gesture, and entangled his fingers with hers with a squeeze.

He misunderstood.

Hand entwined Barbara shook his hand to get his attention again. Walter’s forest evergreen eyes flickered up, the color popping with Barbara’s own red pubic hair.

“I want” she rasps.

“Yes?” he asked, watching her as he kissed into the crook between her leg and pelvic bone.

“Thank” she breathed, feeling she should start with that, and trailed off to catch her breath for the other words.

Walter smiled, still not understanding, yet very amused and enthralled by her flushing face. He returned to his playing, seeing how deep his fingers would go and play what some call ‘a trill against the keys’.

It very nearly unraveled Barbara. The edge so painstakingly close. Her hips bucked, and with the return of the long velvet movements of the cello, a near undoing.

“Mmauh, Aauh, hah~ hah~ _Wa-_.” Barbara’s convulsion stopped the rest of her sentence. Her throat hot with emotion. Knuckles white.

There’s something in the way she squeezed her hand that brought the changeling pause, and the conflicted look on Barbara’s face made Walter ask. “Is this okay? We can always- are you okay?”

Barbara looked down at his damp face, the undecipherable stillness in his evergreen eyes, and saw, like a sparked candle, an unwavering affection. A gaze that searched confirmation, permission.

 _Sexy as hell_.

For the second time, Barbara allowed herself to be indulged.

There’s always round two.

“ _Very_ okay.” she exhaled in a husk that surprised even herself. “Don’t stop.”

Walter smiled, and kissed in and around her pubic area. She moved her hips openly.

“please -Walt - I’m-” the movements of the cello returned. Barbara gasped. Her thighs quivered with the vibrato of the violin. “y eh s”

Walter looked up at her, at the sound of a simpering whimper. For a moment, he worried once more.

Barbara squeezed his hand, and affirmed with a grinding hip motion. “ehs” her fingers released from his hand, and repeated, with a wetter, “ _yes_ ”

With Walter’s free hand, he anchored her. Thumb rubbing circles around her navel. Flicking her, and his eyes to look at her. Walter checked to see if this was still okay. Being anchored so.

Barbara’s words were incoherent, her sounds _encouraging_.

The concerto continues.

Swirls, plucks, sucks, and smacking sounds accompanied Barbara’s rising operatic career. 

Walter harmonized into her.

“I’m, I’ _m_ , r-right th _e_ re - !!!”

And the instruments and their musician are met with a rousing wave of applause.

The musician bowed with small kisses all around, softly thumbing her hip.

The fingers that left their vice grip of the sheets, laced with his; tossed roses to the stage. He kissed those too.

Walter barely heard the words tumble from her lips with how breathy her voice was.

“I” she convulsed pleasurably, exceptionally sensitive, “want” her fingers pushed into his thick spongy hair, scarcely able to trail down his temple and cheek. “ _you_.”

Perhaps it was the timber in her voice, the way she was practically glowing, the affection in her eyes, but Walter forgot how to breath.

It was a simple phrase, and he had heard her say it to him before in their previous coital activities. But there was something about how she said it, about her saying it now, that gave the changeling goosebumps.

Here she was, filled with the offerings and wishes and praises of any fertility goddess. And she wants him.

On their trajectory toward’s Walter’s chin, Barbara’s fingers lost reach with his face. Still, those fingers stretched towards him, in ernest. In yearning. For him.

“Walt,” her knees around him relaxed, her legs and feet now trailing up and down his back, “ _please_ ,” Barbara’s hips rocked in an open invitation. “I want you _with_ me.”

Walter kissed her blessed inner thigh as a response.

He rose to join her, to meet with her.

With outstretched arms, Barbara pulled him close, kissing his face and collecting parts of herself in the process. Like butterflies collecting dew.

Before Walter placed any part of himself to join with her, Barbara licked the palm of her hand and reached down to Walter’s lower region. To play him like a harp.

His breath hitched, and his head lowered in reverence, his second head rising more and more to attention. Just when the changeling thought the attention couldn’t rise any higher.

Barbara gently pushed Walter to lay on his back.

He went as far as to rest on his elbows, and when Barbara started to lower her head, Walter held her face in his hands.

“You don’t have to”

“Do you not want me to?”

“I..” he looked to a corner with an undeserving look. Barbara smiled warmly, spotting the same momentary spark of insecurity in this kindred spirit.

She always wondered where his eyes traveled, seeing a space beyond the corner. Wondered where his mind went with such _long_ looks. She couldn’t pretend to imagine, but Barbara did hope he’ll share those spaces of his mind with her…one day. When he was ready.

Cupping his cheek, Walter inhaled returning to the now, the warmth of her hands like a soothing balm to the touch starved, she guided him to look at her. To look into her eyes.

Remembering to breathe, the changeling nodded, and kissed deep into her mouth an, “I do.” finding its way in her lips as well as, “I do want you to.” helping to wet her lips with more kisses.

A moaned “ _l’ease_ ” escaped him with her harp playing demonstration.

With a hand cupping behind his skull and neck, Barbara guided Walter the rest of the way on to his back. She looked like a knightly hero laying their lover on their back.

A sultry chuckle escaped her as Walter kept trying to steal more kisses from her cherry lips. As if going; _one more, just one more before, one more for the road, one more to thank the heavens for your existence, just one more_.

It delighted Barbara to no end.

And when he did allow her to part ways with his lips, she traversed her own journey to his nether regions. Stoping to nip at a nipple, and give attention to his ribcage, placing a kind balm over the recovered wounds she could scarcely imagine he had endured. It would take keen searching, and the knowledge of what one was looking for, to see the pale pallid glint ofrecovered scars that had faded over the centuries.

Though, when her lips did find those areas, without knowing, the changeling trembled under her all the more.

And although she couldn’t taste the copper on his body, or the dust of a thousand year march, she could taste the sea brine on his chest, freshly dug earth in his arms and hands, the humidity of dark caverns on his stomach, and the musk of aged trees below his navel.

By the time she kissed his hip, Walter was rocking yearningly to the playing of her hand.

He was very nearly lost to his senses when Barbara bent to show her mastery of woodwind instruments. An allegretto woodwind sonata in D major of her own making. (Bach would be proud).

Walter sucked in air and shakily exhaled, “Ohouo oOds”

Nearly putting his entire fist in his mouth to muffle himself. He stopped when he realized that could potentially hurt Barbara’s hand in turn, and was resigned to pant and moan through his palm and fingers. Occasionally licking them to calm a more animalistic want to mewl or snarl.

If only Barbara’s neck was closer, _anything_ of hers was closer.

In previous pillow talk, they had discussed past partners. Barbara learned a few of Walter’s past experiences, of all human genders.

Armed with this knowledge, and the yearning to watch him quiver. Barbara placed licked slick fingers between Walter’s butt cheeks, and gave her attempted rendition at piano playing.

They had yet to discuss strap-ons, but if Walter’s reaction was anything to go on, Barbara _fully_ considered buying one.

“Harbarha, ohou..I’m”

The impish _look_ she gave him then!

If there was worry she was drying out because of her attentions, that worry was gone by her very look.

The sight of him flustered pink kept her damp, and very turned on. Which she demonstrated by moaning into him, sending an electric amount of vibrations down and up his spine.

Walter hit an A# of his own, and became putty in Barbara’s hands.

He wanted to express as much looking at her when, then, with locked eyes, she grazed her teeth ever so slightly against him.

It drove the changeling feral. Likewise his reaction drove Barbara feral. And like two magnets who have been held back from meeting together. Like a drawn back arrow.

The arrow was finally shot. The magnets released.

Barbara sat up and came closer, Walter sat up and shimmied closer as well.

These two forces of nature, together, with no pedestals or apotheosis, like two alchemists of equal skill and respect, transmuted the sonata into a cacophonous _symphony_.

Their movements a heated pas de deux all their own.

A steamy breathed, “FffFfFffFffF uck “ escaping Barbara.

And they did.

And they were.

She moved from above, he below. Their arms seeking and reaching. Hands searching and plucking.

She, attention to his breast. He, a never ending use of mouth against her neck, shoulder, and (gods!) those _clavicles_.

At one point the changeling bit so hard on her neck he felt it as well, and heard her whine.

Walter paused in a second of worry, until Barbara cupped the back of his head and heard her moan in his ear, “ _Harder_.” in a tremble a mezzo soprano would _blush_. “Right there, _hah-gain_.”

“If I hurt you-”

“Walt.” Her voice was hoarse and strained with emotion. The words as tight in her throat as she was. “You’re do-oing so good.” She nipped his earlobe, and, If Walter didn’t know any better would have found it troll-like in how Barbara admitted, pleadingly, with a nuzzle against his temple with hers, “I want it to hurt.”

The feral energy Barbara was emitting was enough to make the changeling drunk.

Walter breathed her in. Deeply kissed her shoulder, marking it lovingly, like a huge red ‘x- to bite’. And with a decisive stroke and unseen flash of his eyes; Waltolomew Stricklander bit her.

Barbara’s everything tightened, and the changeling Waltolomew Stricklander barred down even _harder_.

The sound she made was the definition of animalistic.

It reminded him a little _too_ much of the last sounds animals made when their necks snap. The changeling felt himself seize up with wide unblinking eyes.

He paused to see if he had crossed a line, worried by the sound she made. Despite feeling how Barbara convulsed as if about to vibrate to another dimension. Her second round of applause.

Her head had become limp. Expertly he positioned himself to balance it. His eyes, widened with fear, started to prickle.

But Barbara still moved against him. The symphony wasn’t over, and neither was she.

Walter soon realized the sound she was making was a contorted and emotion heavy, balmy, long, “ _yeeeeeaaaah_ ”

He gulped as she kissed his neck, grazed her own teeth against him. Slowly regaining a life he thought was lost.

Her voice was muffled and wet, “ _Just_ like that.”

“What?” 

“Again” She cooed lovingly, pleadingly. Walter’s own rhythm had slowed down by then, she matched it languidly, and shaking.

“But if - I thought I” the changeling couldn’t finish the thought aloud. Refused to. All while feeling silly. Irrational even. It wasn’t as if his human mouth had the strength to…Walter screwed his eyes shut.

Sensing his concern, she kissed his face reassuringly all over “It’s okay. Walt I promise you” When she tasted a tear, Barbara pulled back and held Walter’s face gingerly in her hands. Barbara’s eyes looked over his features. Caressed his face. Tried to search for some clue, to help her understand what was happening. What had happened. “Walter, are you crying?”

He thumbed his eye exhaling a shaky chuckle, still disbelieving what he was hearing. “I’m alright, I promise.”

The changeling looked over her confused and now worried face. Still bright and pink, and radiant as the sun. Took in the sight of her. This brave fantastic human. His heart swelled.

“Barbara, you’re _amazing_.”

“Yeah?” Not that she doubted him, but rather there was still concern in her voice.

He placed his hands over hers, and guided them so to kiss her fingers. “ _Yeah_.”

Barbara bit her lip when he started to graze his teeth against them. She leaned forward, and kissed his creasing brow. Humming when Walter licked her fingers and nipped her palms.

Then, after giving her pulses attention and kisses, Walter pressed her saintly hands against his face. “Barbara?”

“Yeah?”

The way Walter placed her hands obstructed Barbara’s view of his eyes. “Please don’t ask me to bite harder. I’ll bite, just, not harder. I _can’t_.”

“O-okay, Walt.” She still didn’t understand, but she honored his words and the emotion she felt from them. Barbara kissed his face where she could. “I promise.” Slowly she opened her hands to look into his face. So Walter could see the seriousness that was also present in Barbara’s voice when she said. “I _promise_.”

Walter believed her, and nodded. 

Slowly Barbara lowered her head between her open hands to kiss his nose, and brow, and - gently, _tenderly_ \- his lips.

The changeling responded in kind.

The symphonic rest over, an andante movement grew in its place.

Caring warm touches, affirming slow caresses.

“Do you want to lay on your back?” he asked in a luscious voice.

Barbara shook her head ‘no’ before licking her own palm. Afterwards she leaned back and gave the parts of him that weren’t in her, a slow massage.

Walter shivered, and moaned into her chest.

A smirk was born at Barbara’s growing simpering when Walter’s teeth grazed her nipple. Fondly reminded of a previous discussion, where Barbara revealed to once having had nipple piercings. Walter gave the other nipple a firm tweak.

Barbara tightened all over. A voluptuous sound escaped her as she started to lose the will to support her own back.

With his unused hand, Walter ran his hand up her back.

Weakly Barbara rasps, “Back, back” indicating she changed her mind.

The changeling complied.

He shifted and gently lowered Barbara the rest of the way down. Languidly they moved.

Like spicy provocative, food porn ‘watch this close up of honey dripping slowly from a spoon’ andante movement. 

The arms Barbara wrapped around him, quickly floated away with their movements. Desperate to tussle her own hair and twist the sheets.

Barbara’s legs wrapped around him, and then, after Walter kissed her knee, he adjusted to have one leg placed on his shoulder.

His movement deepened, and at such a pace; it made Barbara gasp all the more.

It’s always the slow crescendo that got her, the way the andante oozes into an allegro.

If it wasn’t for Walter’s support Barbara would’ve been too much of a quivering anomaly to have held her own waist up.

Her center charging with gathering electricity.

Walter’s pants grew heavier with effort, hoarser with emotion. He turned his head to moan into her knee and lower thigh. Giving it occasional licks and nips.

He heard Barbara’s voice distantly, low and tight, “Can I hear you? Will you - let me -?”

Barbara’s leg floated away from his shoulder, so she could spread her legs wider. Her arms beckoned him closer.

The changeling shifted and rested his arms on either side of her.

The sounds he made were intoxicating, the grunts, the moans, and sometimes even…a snarl.

Artlessly he’d attempt some dirty talk, “you’re so - mmph _yes_ \- so, bright”

Barbara smiled, the attempt was enough, cupping the back of his damp skull so to gently guide it to rest against hers. Their foreheads sweaty. It was a miracle their heads didn’t slip with contact. 

“Could you” Walter attempted to ask, voice husky, “Pull? _Gently_ , my hair?”

Barbara clasped a fistful of his thick hair.

The sound and expression mixed with Walter’s momentum nearly unraveled Barbara.

And whenever Barbara noticed that Walter started worrying at either a top or bottom lip she leaned up to kiss him. Offering up her cherry lips for him to orally fixate on with a hum.

The allegro transformed into an allegro _emozionato_.

In a choked gasp Barbara called, “Pull me up!”

“Off?”

“ _Up!_!” she quivered. Her arms shaky to prop herself up while pushing Walter back. He helped her return to their previous position, giving wet kisses into her clavicles with a deep deep inhale. “Walt - I’m close - you?”

“Yes” he answered nipping at her collarbone with a throaty growl.

Which caused Barbara to shake, cupping the back of his sweaty hair in a tuff. Moaning encouragement, and silently hoping he’d bite harder with every gasped, “yes” - torn with what she promised earlier. Torn as she felt, she made damn sure to respect it.

Walter must have read her mind, or, _heck,_ Barbara didn’t put it past Walter to have perhaps smelled her wants with the way he growled. Thus, Walter cupped her cheek with soft intimacy, and cautioned. “I’m going to bite h-“

“ _Yes!!_ ”

Between Barbara’s whimpered and encouraging kisses, he asked, “You’ll - tell me if it’s - too hard?”

Barbara practically turned to putty, rocking, begging, “ _Please_ Walt - I promise”

“A word”

“Any word”

“No - a word to say, that’s clear - I need-” Walter struggled to say, his forehead beading. Languages be damned.

“A safe word?”

“ _Yes_ ” he moaned under her excited bodily reactions.

“Soccer” she said while nipping his earlobe.

“ _What_?”

Before Walter could ask more, Barbara leaned back and fondled his nether regions.

The changeling’s voice hitched. The word, “fuck” lost to her shoulders with breathless laughter. Smiling stupidly as he gifted more hickies into her breasts.

It’ll work. They’ll have to have a better discussion about it later. But for now. Both heated and heading towards the edge. As a last minute decision; It’ll work.

Though just to make sure, as Walter grazed his teeth against Barbara, he asked, “You promise?”

Grabbing the tuft of his hair, Barbara pulled Walter’s head up, and said, very seriously, “I promise you, Walter Strickler.” and sealed her word with a kiss so deep the changeling wondered if it were possible to spontaneously combust to dust without the sun or some weapon. “Now please, _please Walt-_ bite me as much as you feel comfortable with.”

It must have been the trick of the light, but Barbara swore his eyes flickered alive with a glow. The thought however, perished when he felt his teeth.

And to think Walter was going to the dentist later.

With another bite this thought also left Barbara’s mind. Her own pupils widening with pleasure, with heated moans of encouragement so sweltering with emotion, the everglades could be a desert in comparison.

Occasionally, as if he could feel when a bite was particularly hard, Walter’s hand floated up to her cheek, checking in. And her head would wobble a nod against his hand. That calloused hand. And gifted kisses into his palm.

“y e s - just - like that - please, _again_ ” Barbara mewled into his neck and shoulder, depending how her head lolled. Sucking at his earlobe, and whatever surface she could see through the stars that started to prickle her eyes.

And Walter did. Again, and _again_ , and her voice became more and more _inhuman_.

Barbara’s hands raked against him in a way that made Walter look up at her in prayer. She plunged herself deeper against him, and closer to a third round of applause.

His hands clasped her hips helping her, no, _accompanying_ her with her movements. Walter nipped her chin, grazed his teeth on her lower jaw, and snaked his hands higher and higher up her body.

Palming her chest with one hand, and pressing her against him with the other.

They were both close this time. So very, _very_ close.

Walter said one of the most intimate things a changeling could say into her chin, and again into her mouth with a sloppy kiss. Her name. Clear and crisp as day and mountain air.

“Barbara”

Her breath hitched, and her thighs started to quiver. “ _Yes_ ”

“ _Barbara_ ”

Barbara took her name into her mouth, and exhaled what was potentially his own, into his mouth. “ _Walter_ ”

A shared breath.

Their heartbeats raced at a synchronized pace. Bodies _tightly_ wound.

The earth could have stopped spinning. Time could have stopped ticking. Wars could have never happened. And neither of them would have noticed.

For in that moment, that coming, rising, _blinding_ moment. The only stillness was that of the other. Existence, was shared. It was like a beacon turned on inside them. And all they saw and felt, were each other.

In short, their most intimate coital interaction yet.

There were rounds of applause, and encores. An encore that continued even as the curtain, slowly, luxuriously, dropped. **(*)**

 

~

 

They were entangled sloppily together. Their heads moving between thankful praising kisses, and leaning away for a little more air to breathe. To catch their breath.

The sheets, in a deep need of a wash, stained with their sweat and other lovely things.

Walter’s hair a shadow of its former pompadour, spongey with damp wavy curls.

Barbara’s hair, laced and fanned like silk strands of the deepest magma. 

Hands warm, and sweaty, lightly squeezing the other with little pulsing reminders of praise, and being still there.

“I think I’m going to have to use your shower, I’m afraid.”

“You can have the shower. My degree.”

“Not the degree!”

“The mortgage. Everything.”

“ _Everything_?” he mused, tweaking her sensitive nipple.

Barbara chirped a whimper, smiling despite herself. She elbowed him heartily, “Don’t you re-fluster me.” and grazed his lower regions with her thigh. 

Walter gave a balmy chuckled sound of his own into her hair, biting his lip, “Fair, truce, fair.”

“Good.” she paused, kissing his nose, and the faint freckles that lived on the bridge of his nose, and below his eye. The freckles were so faint it took Barbara weeks before she noticed they were there. “Tweak the other?”

Walter snorted, and tweaked her other nipple. Balance restored.

Barbara draped herself slightly on him, trailing her kisses to his mouth. She reminded herself out loud, “You have work.”

He responded with a hummed kiss of his own. Work felt like a long gone memory. But, as Barbara proved time and again, she was right.

“You still have to pee.” he reminded her. Knowing that Barbara had a habit, as did most women, and those with said genitalia who might or might not identify as such, went to relieve themselves after intercourse - to help prevent infection (like UTI’s).

Walter made a mental note to check in on the health ed curriculum.

“Shit. How long have we been laying here?”

“Do you want the time with the added calculations of bef-“ She kissed his lips still, not ready for his snark.

Barbara groaned in an annoyed sort of way, and wobbly propped herself up. “Alright. Don’t want to break my record.” She turned and tugged at Walter’s arm. “C’mon. You should get up too.”

“Can’t.” Dramatically Walter draped his other arm over his head. “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

Barbara gasped as if she heard the most blasphemous thing in all her life. “That is such a _liiiiieeeeee_!”

Walter hid his smirk in the crook of his elbow, then nearly bit it when he felt a breath of air on his lower regions.

“Unfair!”

Barbara raised a coy brow as his regions still twitched life. “MmmHm. That’s what I thought.” and trailed her fingers in a walking like way up his thigh. Punctuating her words with her fingered dainty steps “Time. To. Get-“

Walter got up, and wrapped Barbara in his arms, dipping her slightly. “What was that again about re-flustering?”

“Don’t you dare.” she squealed.

“Do what?” Walter asked eyeing her mischievously as he lowered his head.

“I see what you’re thinking.” she squirmed, conflicted and giddy.

“I don’t think I understand.” he lied, leaving his mouth open with a flash of teeth.

“You’re lying.” Barbara’s toes wiggled as she bit her lip. Walter showed more of his teeth, and dropped his head a little more. Never breaking eye contact, watching as Barbara’s eyes dilated. Barbara dug her heels into the sheets with anticipation, flustering. “Look, LOOK! Don’t you wiggle your eyebrows!”

Oh he wiggled them, and let slip past his teeth his pink tongue.

“W-Walter.” she warned. Barbara couldn’t see it, but very easily imagined the saliva collecting on his tongue. A trail of it about to drip onto her neck. A part of her couldn’t wait to feel it, ached even. The teasing was unbearable. She screwed her eyes shut. “ _Walt_.”

Walter closed his mouth, and started to sit her back up. An apology and mention of going too far on his lips when he was interrupted by Barbara’s dainty hand.

“If you do this,” she smiled encouragingly with a shaky warning tone, and hue-ing cheeks, “if you continue..”

“You’re right. I need a shower.” Walter nodded responsibly.

Barbara deflated a little, but nodded understandingly.

Her sails picked up again with wind when Walter dipped her again without warning. A warm hand curling around her waist as he offered. “Join me?”

“ _Yes_.” she breathed. A rising yearning, as they agreed on it with a kiss.

The pair of them rolled and wobbled off the bed. Underestimating the state of their own legs and bodies, they buckled slightly into each other. Nearly bumping into the bedside table, they chuckled and helped each other walk a straight line.

Their laughter echoing behind them like bells. 

Both of them were in _dire_ need of a shower.

It was practical enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Needless to say, Walter Strickler was going to be late for work.

Later, when more composed and ready for the day, though still not completely dressed. Barbara and Walter loitered in the bathroom. The door opened so the steam could float out of the bathroom.

Idly chatting of this and that as Walter helped Barbara apply makeup and chilled spoons against the welts and rosy marks on her neck and shoulders.

“I never noticed how good you are at this.” Barbara leaned to the mirror admiring their handy work on her neck.

“My biting? I beg to differ.” he purred.

She clicked her tongue with a warning look. “Don’t you start.”

Walter looked innocently at the ceiling. As innocent as a cat found with feathers on their whiskers.

“You know what I mean.” she said, gently tapping her collarbone, checking how dry the makeup was. Barbara winced at how her neck was going to be tender later. She blushed at the thought.

When her eyes flickered back to Walter he had that far away look in his eyes again. It reminded her of her brother, ever so vaguely. From there, a darker thought started to spawn in her mind. Or rather, it was a growing dark thought that had been collecting over the weeks of knowing each other. When he’d get those looks. The thought finally took shape and it was like ice touched her spine.

After all, where did Walter learn to cover bruises so well? He admitted to having a brief military career. That is, he admitted to it when Barbara finally guessed it.

Softly clasping Walter’s hand, Barbara thumbed his knuckles. “You okay?”

“Mm? Oh, yes -” he smiled, remembering where he was.

By now, Barbara had started to realize his tactics. “You’re lying.” She declared aloud. Hearing herself say so un-jokingly made her realize just how much those words stung. And by the shocked look that glazed over Walter’s eyes, Barbara knew she was right. She didn’t want to begin to think how often he had deflected without her knowing.

Never in a gaslighting sort of way, Walter always acknowledged his mind wandering. Never did the words ‘you’re imagining things’ ever leave his lips. 

“We even, last night-“ Her heart sank.

“Talked. You’re right.” Walter Strickler closed his eyes tight, nose curling as he cursed himself. How could he’ve been so sloppy?

Walter knew how; Barbara was how.

Barbara slowly leaned off the sink, and turned to him. She sighed, clasping her hands together against her mouth in thought.

Walter opened his eyes again at the feeling of her hand on his shoulder. She looked so tired.

So tired of the people she cared about lying to her, keeping things from her. Not letting her in, deflecting her away.

“Barbara, I-”

“No more lies.” Her nose started to turn red, but not the same red hue from before. “Please Walt.” Her head lowered. Her forehead pressed against his chest. Barbara’s hand shook as her voice wavered. A cracked sound, like breaking ice, “Not you too.”

Walter couldn’t see how the tears that slowly collected in her eyes, dropped between their feet. But by the _gods_ did he hear it in her voice too.

All the cruel brutalities he faced and had charged against and endured, were nothing compared to how geode shattering, stomach curling, vile feeling, and _heart_ strangling Barbara’s small humble plea was.

Walter struggled to find his voice. Licking his lips. “I-”

“I’m not asking for you to tell me things you don’t feel like talking about. I, I get that. Really. Somethings, you just can’t talk about.” Barbara’s hand on Walter’s shoulder slowly trailed down his chest, and made a weak fist. “After Grant’s first tour, he…he was like that. We didn’t figure it out in time, and by the time he had to go on a second tour, by the time they shipped him off..” Barbara’s shoulders shook, her voice grew hoarse. She couldn’t finish her sentence.

Barbara could feel Walter’s chest rise in a shaky inhale. His eyes searching the ceiling, while silent tears collected on his chin.

“So, so I get it, you know? S-so please.” the fist on his chest grew white around the knuckles. Her voice a strangled crack. Fighting for composure. “I’m not asking you to tell me things you don’t want to. But, but don’t lie. I-I don’t want you to feel like you have to lie to me.”

Walter wrapped his arms around her, fearing if she shook anymore, she’d buckle and fall like an autumn leaf.

Holding her close, Barbara turned her head and the changeling could feel her damp cheeks. Closing his eyes, several tears trickled past Walter’s own cheeks, joined the collected bunch at his chin, and fell into Barbara’s hair.

Barbara bravely continued, “I’d be fine, even if you say; ‘you’re right, but it’s a thing I’m not ready to talk about’ that’s- that alone is _fine_. It’s _enough_. But _please_. You don’t have to push me away. I, I don’t want to be pushed away. Not by you too.” Barbara hiccuped choked back tears, they only doubled when she felt Walter rest his head on hers, holding her tight.

Barbara’s restrained voice broke with a sob,“You can let me in, Walt.” her bawled fist lightly hit his chest, physicalizing her words. “Please know, you can let me in.” Barbara went to hit his chest again, but Walter caught her hand and stilled it. As deserving as he was of punches, especially Barbara’s punches -Walter didn’t want Barbara to end up feeling them too. Her broken voice was a quiet muffled plea, Walter almost didn’t catch it, “please let me in”

Barbara shook her head against his chest, her tears big and globby. Desperate to sniffle up the snot that risked leaking from her nose. To regain the composure she lost.

Barbara didn’t mean for so much emotion to crash out of her. The way Walter held her and rubbed her back didn’t help her tears to stop flowing.

Walter thumbed her now shaking fist.

Barbara cleared her throat. “You know you can, right?”

He responded by nodding and smoothing her hair.

By now, even Walter’s shoulder’s were to trembling. Choked with emotion. Stifling his own sniffed and shaky cry as he pressed thousands upon thousands of apologies into her hair.

This was his doing.

He wished he could, for months he had been wishing he could just open himself up and not have to dance around parts of himself. Barbara brought out that desire in him.

A desire to simply be.

She made him feel… _whole_.

“Do…” the question dangled before Barbara’s teeth, scared to ask. But she did anyways. “..do you _want_ to let me in? Can you? You don’t have to, if I’m - Am I-?”

“You are.” he didn’t know what, whatever she was, she was _it._ 10 times more than she thought. “I want to. Barbara, I want to let you in.” he heard himself say, mouth going dry. “I wish I, I wish I could just-“

Barbara looked up into his strained face, his eyes pained with words that wouldn’t form. She watched him struggle, and she believed him.

Snaking a hand to cup his cheek, Barbara’s palm collected more and more of Walter’s falling tears. It was as if her kind touch opened faucets in him. Like how downpours caused mudslides, or runoffs.

And like water, Barbara was patient. Looking up at him through her tears and sniffles, watching him lean into her touch with conflicted emotion.

“Barbara, I’m - I don’t deserve..” her brow furrowed, and she thumbed his cheek coaxingly. “I’m not good.” he admitted, out loud.

“What do you mean?” she asked softly.

“I’ve done things. Horrible things.”

“For the Navy?”

Waltalomew Stricklander laughed bitterly, “Yes.” then nodded pathetically. “Yes.”

Barbara wondered at what kind of life being on a merchant Navy ship meant. It was then she realized her own ignorance, she never assumed they went into battle…did they go into battle?

Quietly Barbara admitted, “I…I don’t understand.”

The changeling nodded compassionately into her palm. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t understand. It was his, and the fact she was left in the dark. “I know you don’t.”

“I _want_ to though.”

Walter pressed her hand closer to his face with his own hand. Holding it there, as if it could ease the tight knot the changeling felt in his chest. “I _know_.”

Barbara wiped her nose with her free arm, sniffled, and palmed an eye dry before cradling Walter’s face between her hands.“I’m here.”

“I’m not a nice person, Barbara.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I _know_.”

“Hey, hey,” gently Barbara caressed his face, thumbing one of Walter’s many trailing tears. Her voice still a little shaky, it quivered despite how encouraging she braved herself to sound. Fearful she wouldn’t say the right thing. “I - I don’t know about what you’ve done. I don’t think I’m anywhere near - close to being an authority on it. I - I don’t even know what a Merchant Navy _does_ , fully, I mean. And since I can’t - I won’t even pretend to imagine what that must have been like. What, what kind of _toll_ that kind of life was.”

Walter screwed his eyes shut, the creases between his brow deepening. With a sniffle, she wiped a few more of his tears.

“I didn’t know you then. The you I know is, is the you _now_.” Slowly the changeling looked at her again. Barbara bent forward a bit, so he could see her clearly. “The one in front of me. Who, who doesn’t like to kill spiders. Who is super cautious about road safety. Who gets frustrated every time he hears a short Napoleon joke.”

The changeling bowed his head acceptingly. Allowing Barbara’s words to fill him, and the cracked spaces inside. Walter Strickler wondered if it was alright to let this, them, simply _be_. If only a little.

He sniffled, “He wasn’t short.”

Barbara smiled, also sniffling, and gave a tight chuckle that caused a few more tears to fall, “I know. I know he wasn’t.” She combed some of his hair back.

In the small moment of quiet that followed, they sniffled.

Walter’s voice was just above a whisper. “It doesn’t change the things I’ve done, Barbara.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t.” She caressed his cheek. “Nothing can nor ever will change the things you’ve done. Do you know why?”

Walter gave a slow shaky exhale, and Barbara lifted his head slightly to look at her.

Teary eye, to teary eye. She answered herself. “Because it’s already happened Walt. It’s in the past. In your history. You’re the teacher here, you know better than I do - there’s always, always a way to learn from it. And as much of a battle that’s going to be…it doesn’t mean you have to face it alone.”

“Barbara that’s-“

“All that matters to me, Walter, is who you are now.” the changeling stared at this baffling human. At Barbara, as she smiled up into his face with eyes that had turned dewy from the residual tears. Barbara softly placed her warm hand over his heart, bravely saying, “And, and I’d like to know you more…will you let me?”

The answer in the changeling’s mind was a resounding ‘yes’. But he _had_ to be mindful. Walter didn’t have the luxury to forget himself. And yet every pore in his human form screamed the words he wished he could say.

Half choked, Walter clasped the hand Barbara placed over his heart. “I, I…I’m a liar Barbara, it’s a horrid habit. A habit I’m, I’m _very_ good at.” he admitted.

She sniffled and leaned forward, as if instinctively feeling the answer Walter wanted to give. She watched the conflict in his eyes. “I’ve realized that. Besides, good liars don’t like to admit they’re lying.”

“It…it won’t be easy.” he urged, trying to dissuade her despite the traitorous want in his own voice.

“It never is.”

“I-I’ll probably mess-up, miss-step.”

“I know.” She said patiently.

Somehow their faces were closer together than he had realized. Walter gulped.

“It’ll be a promise you can’t altogether hold me to…” the changeling squeezed Barbara’s hand. He could almost feel the peach fuzz of Barbara’s chin. Her soft minty breath on his face. Walter could hardly believe his own words when he next said “..but I’ll try. To all the gods I can name. I’ll try.” The most shocking thing, Walter realized, was that he meant it in earnest.

Barbara didn’t bat an eye to such an antique promise. If she had heard anyone else say it like that, it probably would have come off as weird, pretentious even. But the way Walter said it, he said it as if it carried weight. From a time gods weren’t name dropped all willy nilly. There was fear. Respect.

“Thank you” Barbara’s lips were grazing his as she spoke, “Thank you, Walt.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you cry. I’m sorry I-” Barbara took the rest of his apology into a deep pressed kissed. Putting as much coated forgiveness as she could.

Walter dragged his hand through her hair, and pulled her closer. Almost lifting her off her feet in the process.

For a moment, a blissful moment, the changeling believed this could work out. 

Walter staggered backwards a little, remembered there was a bathtub behind him, and gently carried Barbara until her back was against the wall. Her toes grazing the floor as he moved.

Each feeling a little more comfortable in their skins. That drained pleasant feeling after a release of pent up emotion. Transmuting the weight on their hearts to feathers, the tears collected into merciful kisses.

Hands that touched tenderly.

“Barbara.”

“Mmm, yes Walter?”

“We’re going to have to re-do your makeup.”

They paused, a thin trail of saliva connecting their lips as they both looked down. He was right. The once well blended foundation a mix max tone with an unbalanced amount of bruising and hickies showing through.

“I look like a plague victim.”

“The sexiest plague victim I know.”

Barbara snorted a laugh, the tears that prickled through, tears of emotional relief. It was infectious.

“I - I bet you say that to all the plague-ees.”

Walter chuckled, and found himself unable to stop, his nerves and emotions almost drunk and exhausted. Barbara kissed a few of his own tears. “Is that the technical turn for it?”

“ _Term_.” she giggled.

“Right.” He kept giggling, as Barbara’s arms wrapped around him. Walter gently lowered her back down, so to stand on her own once more. “Barbara?”

Walter’s arms stayed around her, together, they stood their hugging.

“Yes?”

“I, I just want you to know that…that I,”

Barbara’s eyes widened curiosity, fear, and excitement entering into her inhale. “Y-eah?”

“I care about you. I hope you know that…I, I care about you very much.”

The word ‘care’ sounded like a substitution, but Barbara didn’t mind. It was a hard word to say, to admit. A scary one even. One even _she_ was scared of. But she believed, when looking into those still forest green eyes, Barbara believed.

“I care about you too.”

Walter’s smile stretched lopsidedly and wide. Barbara’s smile stretched in a way that made her dimples and nose crease.

And they kissed, and kissed, and slowly descended into tiny stress relieving fits of laughter and caresses.

Slowly, benevolently, gravitating to the floor. Holding onto one another, as a different kind of tear would form in their eyes.

They both agreed to take a lazy morning in after that. Emotions still raw, and not quite wanting to return to the rest of the world.

Not yet.

The sun oozed and washed the kitchen in warm hues, the coffee brewing on the counter as linen curtains billowed ever so slightly with the breeze of the open window.

Spring birds chirped. Someone, on the road was having a discussion over their mailbox.

The kitchen smelled of lemons. While waiting for the bread to toast Walter gently rubbed a potted basil plant’s leaf so to smell the basil on his fingers.

“Sorry, no raspberry.” said Barbara looking through her cupboards. Walter blew a sad sounding raspberry her way. She looked over her shoulder badly hiding her amusement. “ _Really_?”

“I’m a romantic that way.” he grinned, plating the now ready toast. “But anything would do, honest.”

“Mmm alright then.” she said picking out an unopened blackberry marmalade. Her head tilted left and right, and Walter could feel the the tenderness of her shoulders setting in.

They sat at the counter, the sound of scraping bread and a spoon circling in a coffee cup accompanied their discussion. A discussion that was a little more personal, than their usual banter and jokes.

“So, were you closer to your mom or dad?”

“I’d…like to say both? My mother was a woman a bit hard to please.” Barbara nodded with an understanding nod of someone who also knew what that was like. “While my father was, kind - but distanced himself often. It wasn’t until I helped him in the fields that we really bonded.”

“What was that like?”

“Enjoyable actually.” he looked into his black coffee, and saw the hills of olive groves in the foam, “I even considered taking over the business, once.”

Barbara stared, bit her lip and realized how soon she was in touchy territory. Her chair creaked as Barbara leaned forward softly. “What happened?”

Walter inhaled, his hands gesticulating in circular motions while he tried to think of a way to say and explain, while not say. Trying to keep to his word when it came to lying to Barbara, as best as he reasonably could.

“Another time?” guessed Barbara, as if reading his mind.

The changeling exhaled, feeling disarmed and relived in one. Slowly he nodded with an apologetic sort of smile. With her free hand, Barbara rested her hand over his gently.

“And your grandmother?” she asked, understandingly changing the subject.

“A maddening woman.” Walter laughed fondly. “It was the three of us in the house. Heaven forbid she kept an opinion to herself. In fact, it’s when she did that was really worrisome.” The changeling cleared his throat, thinking of those suspiciously quiet looks the grandmother would give him. The question never far from his mind; did she _know_? “I like to think I picked up a great deal of tricks from her. She was formidable and disarming all in one. I wouldn’t be surprised if her spine was made of iron.”

Barbara snorted a laugh and adjusted her glasses. “You certainly sound like you were close.”

“And your family? Were you closer to-“

“My mom.” she nodded. “My dad is…was…a very loud man. If there was a problem, his go to was to shout until it’s fixed.”

“Oh…I’m, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah well.” she shrugged it off not wanting the feeling of rising irritability that tended to hit her over the head when thinking of the man to stick. “Why they’re still together is beyond me. But” Barbara tilted her head, attempting to see her mother’s side of the argument, “my mom says he’s calmed down…and, he’s never raised his voice to Jim,” At the thought Barbara’s eyes flared like the changing of tides, a quick summer storm over the ocean. Pointing to Walter firmly, “- Oof cause if he ever did, _OOF_ \- it would not end pretty. For starters he’d never see his grandson again.”

The changeling felt a bit terrified for a moment. Exceptionally guilty, and horrified of the thought of what could be if-

Barbara’s words cut his thoughts as she calmed herself, “But yeah, mom says he’s a changed man since Grant and I were kids…so, I really don’t know.”

Walter gulped. “I see.” he cleared his throat. “Do you have any other siblings? Aside from Grant.”

Barbara shook her head ‘no’, taking a bite of her toast. “After me my mom had a miscarriage. They stopped trying after that.” she said with a medical calm.

“Oh, Barbara-“ She held her hand up in a show of not wanting to go further.

“It’s sad, but true. Luckily there was Auntie Nim. She always helped mom get out of her funks.”

“You said she was a family friend?”

Barbara hummed a yes into her coffee, nodding to gesticulate in an eagerness to answer. “Yeah.” she said at last, “For as far back as I can remember, everyone on my mom’s side seems to have known her at least some point. Likes to send nice little care packages too.” she lifted her glass demonstrating, “This cup set being one of them.”

“I understand now why it must have been hard when she left so suddenly.”

She rubbed the side of her arm, with a soft smile, “Yeah.” she looked at the gold rim of the white porcelain. “My mom passed it to me after the divorce. As a congratulations of it _finally_ going through.” she took another drink and thumbed the rim. “But more so for the divorce my mom said it was what Auntie Nim would have wanted, especially when I legally changed my last name.”

“Lake isn’t your father’s surname?”

Barbara shook her head, with a touch of pride, “My mom’s maiden name.” She looked at he cup again with growing warmth. “Good ol’ Vivi Nim.” a sigh, and she wafted her hands as if expelling some sticking hard emotion.

She wanted to move on, change the subject. Walter smiled.

“So! Any sports?” Barbara asked putting the spotlight back on the changeling.

In a pitch that was higher than needed to be, unsure if it was entirely a lie or not, he said, “Darts?”

Barbara snorted and dusted the crumbs on her fingers over her plate. “Really?”

“I’ve an alright eye.”

“Walt, I’ve tried your glasses, your eyesight is almost as worse as mine.”

The changeling looked innocently into his coffee. Keeping to himself that the glasses were false to begin with. He hummed a, “Perhaps.”

“Alright, prove it.”

“What?”

“Throw something.” said Barbara as if this was a perfectly normal thing someone asked in the morning. 

“What if I break a window?”

“How? Are you planning to throw, one of my _cups_?” she snarked.

“No, no you’re right.”

Barbara reached for a broken unused mug that kept an assortment of pens and writing utensils.

“I thought you said no mugs.” Walter cracked.

“Har, har - here.” she handed him a small black pen. “Try and hit the calendar.”

Walter scratched the side of his nose. “Is this really necessary?” his hand feeling the weight of the pen.

Barbara pushed her plate away, leaned forward and rested her head on her laced together fingers expectantly with a wide eyed curious look.

How could the changeling possibly say no?

Pleasantly resigned her made a show of rolling his shoulders and pulling up his sleeves. “Have to warm up first.”

“Pffff, ah-huh - _Stalling_ ~” Barbara sing songed.

“Alright alright, keep you glasses on.” he mused, then quickly went to reach for her glasses, ‘Actually, I might need these.”

Barbara snickered gently pushing his hands away, “No! You’ll widen the frames!”

“The frames?”

“You know what I mean! Temples - hinges - whatever -! Use your own.” she squealed tweaking his nose. “This is only proving my point!” She noted aloud.

_THWAK_

Barbara gasped. The pen hit a little off center, but it still hit the calendar. She rested her head against his with an open mouth, kissed his nose and said, “Lucky shot.”

“Oh?” he said trying not to sound too proud of himself. Deeply enjoying the disbelieving look Barbara was giving him.

“So lucky, I could call you St. Patrick.”

“Well funny story about that -“ Barbara eagerly placed more pens in his hands. “Well, perhaps another time.” he chortled clicking and un clicking a red pen.

“One more time?”

Walter lifted his hands that had more than just a ‘one more time’ amount of pens. Innocently Barbara batted her eyes.

And so he chucked the pen again, this time aiming far far off center it nearly hit the wall.

Barbara rubbed her lower lip, “Alright, you still get points…not sure I’m too convinced.”

A competitive nature started to rise in the changeling. As well as a want to dumbfound Barbara again. So he leaned into her ear, “Pick a date?”

Barbara smirked, biting her lower lip. Leaning her head a little closer against his and shifting her eyes at the calendar she said. “15?”

“Mmm.” he kissed her shoulder. “The ides of -“ Walter leaned and dramatically squinted at the calendar, “What month is it again?”

Barbara snorted and pushed him away from her teasingly. “Cmon show off, show me what you got.”

He wiggled his brows a little looked at the target, goofily stuck his tongue out as if this wasn’t something he could do by second nature, and chucked the pen.

It didn’t hit the 15th, but rather the line between the 14th and 15th.

“Shut. up.” went Barbara who looked back and froth with an open mouth and an ‘are you serious?!’ expression. She got up to check the calendar to make sure she wasn't imagining things, and looked back at Walter again. “Shut up.”

The changeling, was very pleased with himself. His ears giving off a light blush. “Still lucky?”

Barbara collected the pens and giddy asked, “Show me how?”

Walter’s smile spread like wild fire. “You got it.”

A good portion of 20 minutes was spent doing so. Barbara chuckling, as the pen chucked almost everywhere but the calendar. Somehow she managed to get blue ink on her nose in the process. They cheered a little dance when Barbara was able to hit the nail that held up the calendar. Walter even picked her up into a spin.

At this point, there was a small smudge of ink on Walter’s nose as well. Though the stain was at a side where Barbara wasn’t standing at to continue throwing pens, so it went unnoticed. It wasn’t until Barbara was able to hit the binding that held the top and bottom half of the calendar, the two cheering again, that Barbara snorted a chuckle at Walter’s own inked beauty mark.

From their fit of giggles, they found themselves descending into a fit of butterfly kisses.

Barbara was leaning against the counter when she felt a certain presence. Walter noticed as well, the two looking down.

A deep blush spread over Walter’s cheeks and nose, it made the ink dot darker against his skin. Barbara cleared her throat, blushing as well.

With a side eye glance at the window, she noticed they couldn’t be seen if they were to -

A mischievous smile grew on Barbara’s face. After the emotional rollercoaster of the morning, the idea of another form of relief didn't sound bad at all.

The two shared an unspoken look. The blush on Walter’s face spreading to his ears.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly.

As an answer, Barbara lowered her hand below his belt line. **(*)**

Walter bit his lip, obstructing the yearning sound he wanted to exhale. Barbara cupped his cheek, working him into a fluster. Taking in how his brows creased.

She kissed the corner of his mouth, then tried to coax his mouth into a wider kiss. Humming and reddening at the sound of the moan that he exhaled.

“Can I hear you? I mean, the window’s still open, so we’ll have to be careful.” the risk of it was exhilarating. She coaxed another huffed and flustered moan out of him. “but I’d still like to hear you.”

He pressed himself against her slightly, and slowly coiled an arm around her. A hand snaking up her chest. “That’s some kinky shite, Barbara.”

The twinkle in her eye was dangerously intoxicating, and their teeth crashed in the fervor of their next shared kiss.

“You better - believe it.” she panted. His attention turned from her lips to her earlobe, to close to her - “Soccer!”

Walter stopped.

Flustered and conflicted Barbara leaned her head into his shoulder. Explaining while not trying to feel like a hypocrite. “I don’t think my neck can take much more right now. I’m so-“

Walter stilled her apology with a kiss.“It’s alright.” he encouraged with a small squeeze of her hand. “It’s what the word’s for.” he gently kissed where he was going to bite, then kissed her lips. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His words came so easily, without any snide remark or retort, just kind and accepting without an ounce used to make her feel bad. Barbara’s heart swelled, and she looped her arms around his neck pulling him closer. “You’re good to me Walt. Too good.”

The changeling kept his self deprecating comments to himself, and rather focused on Barbara feeling good.

Slowly inching her skirt higher, while he left a trail of kisses down her chin, throat, chest, stomach…

Barbara’s breath hitched, muffling a whimper. She couldn’t see Walter’s face by now, but she could feel his breath. How close he was to her. Flustering Barbara all the more as he took his time lowering her underwear. She had felt his tongue a few times already, but had yet to feel it without the underwear. Bare.

Barbara braced herself against the counter, her voice shaky. It was the anticipation that killed her, almost tempted to worry her own breast for any sense of relief from her growing frustration.

She felt Walter’s nose before feeling his tongue, but when she did, she gasped.

Her hands clutching the counter, Barbara bent forward in a heat of emotion while trying very hard to hold herself up. Walter made sure not to make it easy for her.

Barbara swayed and moved her hips with want, feeling her heartbeat in her own ears.

“Thats’s - oh~ good”

Barbara simpered a chuckle sound when she had a sneaky hunch Walter was spelling n-e-i-g-h-b-o-r-s against her. Her knees felt ready to buckle.

Desire heavy in her voice Barbara managed to say, “Walt I,” she wanted more, no, needed more than just tongues and fingers. Panting to catch her breath, she looked down to the sight of Walter looking up at her, on his knees. A slight glaze around his mouth. “fuck _me_ , that’s hot.”

Walter grinned, exceedingly pleased with himself, and made a show of pinching his lower lip, and rubbing his thumb and index finger together.

In a bout of panted laughter, Barbara descended onto Walter, forsaking the counter for the full use of the floor. The start of another symphonic concerto.

The rest, as some might say, was history - and it was enjoyed _deeply_. **(*)**

At some point Draal returned to the basement, heard what was happening and made an about-face so sharp he could cut glass. “Nope.”

If only they could spend the entire day this way. Barbara and Walter sat on the kitchen floor, each looking in need of putting themselves together again.

Barbara’s makeup needing touched up (again). Her skirt abandoned somewhere (somehow it got onto the counter), with her legs draped lusciously over Walter’s legs. Walter’s own turtleneck abandoned to some distant corner, the ink stain thoroughly off either of their faces.

They hummed and pressed thankful kisses into each other. Resting into each other tenderly. Their fingers lacing hands, or running through hair. Caressing bare arms as they leaned into the other.

Content to sit there as such for the rest of the day.

But alas, if only there were enough hours in the day.

If only.

 

          Arcadia Oaks High School

 

Strickler, within his inner changeling office, was staring down into the safe.

On his way to the dentist, there was something in the way the he noticed the wind change that didn’t sit well in the changeling’s stomach.

He debated if he was being rational.

He started to doubt it when he removed the contents of the safe, setting it aside. From strange cracked bones, sigils in violet and dried blood, a ridged sacrificial dagger with an ivory handle and mother of pearl, the skull of a gnome, a leather pouch of powder, so - many - blasted - books; their pages filled with rosemary and lavender to keep the weevils out.

Finally when the safe was empty, Walter stared into the empty space, harder. Grazing his teeth over his thumb in thought.

“The occult is just a form of science, and the ‘pricking of my thumbs’ is merely a hypothetical hunch.” Strickler reasoned with himself out loud. Not genuinely feeling reassured.

His skull ringing, feeling the phantom presence of his horns as if it were struck with a tuning fork. In his left ear, Strickler swore he heard a wave, an actual ocean wave, in his right ear a high pitched ringing sound.

For safety he hit the side of his head incase another pixie might have found itself wedged in his ear.

Nothing happened.

With a shake of his head, Walter Strickler lifted the hidden bottom compartment. Within, was the third triumbric stone.

Gunmar’s eye.

For the briefest second the changeling winced at the light it gave off on its own, and with a scowl he cursed and pocketed it into his inner jacket pocket. Kept safe next the the pouch Giselle gave him.

Grumbling, he stood up, his knees making a slight popping sound, and turned to his desk drawer to fish for some tylenol.

 

          The Dentist’s

 

Why were dentists like this? Why do they believe they can maintain a conversation with their patient when they have their fingers in their patient’s mouth? When that isn’t even the rule of dialogue.

There is no dialogue it’s only; question, grunted response, and vocalized thought. Like a running internal monologue.

Why? Why??

Yet Dr. Muelas was a good dentist, a kind dentist.

In the time it took to examen Strickler’s molar, and a few fake teeth (One of which might be cracked or in need of readjusting - which are two very different dental stories, but the dentist didn’t seem too bothered), the changeling had heard for the fifth time since sitting down, just how proud Dr. Muelas was of his kids. How he’d do anything for them.

Ever patient with his new dental assistant as well.

A human woman who smelled of peppermints.

 

[Time]

What could it possibly feel like? Loosing a soul by one’s own hand. Watching it float tauntingly around one’s eyes. It was there, just within reach. Angor was so close to filling that void that had ached and writhed within the poor troll for what felt like eons.

And then.

In an instant.

It was gone.

And if Angor felt cold and empty before.

Now.  
Now he felt glacial. He could hardly feel the wind rush against him as he charged blindly at the Trollhunter.

Surely he, his Pale Lady’s enemy, surely _he_ was the culprit.

And yet.

And

Yet!

Angor felt a weight off his chest. A weightlessness that was exhilarating.

More intoxicating than the sweetest ambrosia.

He could no longer hear the whispers in the dark corners of places. The becoming and promises and words of encouragement of that Dark Mistress. Of the Argante creature, that Pale Lady from beyond.

Angor no longer heard her, nor felt that obligatory weight in his icy stomach.

What he felt, was the cold touch of the void, and the empty embrace of freedom - and the price it costed.

[Time]

 

 

Or was that just Strickler’s imagination after nearly gagging on his own saliva. Strickler had almost hit his head on the light just to sit upright again. The changeling barely heard her apologies over the ringing in his ears. Though made sure to thank her when a cup of water was pressed into his hands.

All and all, it didn’t make sense. The air, suction, thing was right in his mouth.

Was it his own saliva?

(It wasn’t. And the Inferna Copula was gone.) 

Coughing fit subsidized and sitting back into the chair Dr. Muelas started to discuss a fascinating patient of his, one whom might need a headgear in the weeks to come.

Strickler gave the usual committal sounds with his mouth strained and wide open. His gazing eyes fixed beyond the light that was shining down into his mouth.

Yet despite all of this, all the changeling could think of was Gladys Groe, and the look on Nomura’s face when she found out Gladys had played her last trick.

Gladys was foolish that night, attempting to take a life when it wasn’t authorized, only because a child entered into the dentist’s office with a gaggle-tack.

“Touched by the Green Knight.” was what was usually said when such an avoidable death happened. For they say, he inhibits the senses. Trips you into dumb choices. Costly choices. “He had her True Name. He called, and she fumbled and answered.”

“I warned her to be mindful! Not to act like an idiot!” Nomura said that night, infuriated. Kicking the museum vending machine hard enough to leave a dent. “What an. absolute. _moron_!”

Nomura huffed, hands still clenched in fists with nostrils flared.

“I’m not paying for that.” said Strickler matter of factly, pocketing his hands.

Nomura flung her hands in the air and shifted into her human form before she could act on the desire to eat the damned vending machine.

She walked in circles, her heels clicking at a quick tempo, and slowly decreasing in speed as she started to calm down.

Nomura leaned against the vending machine. Crossed her arms for a moment. Then punched the machine.

The punch didn’t leave a dent, but a bag of chips did fall.

Without looking at the machine or Strickler, Nomura scowled. “Are you assembling a clean up crew?”

“Yes.” said Strickler, bending to fish out the chips from the vending machine. “Though it seems the children already cleaned up her ashes.”

“Pfff, _cleaned up_. They probably dusted themselves as soon as she combusted.” Nomura laughed darkly, eyeing a distant corner of the museum’s ceiling. “She’s probably on her way to the dump as we speak.”

“Probably.” the changeling didn’t blame the teenagers. They didn’t know any better. “There were signs of laughing gas being used.”

Nomura clicked her tongue. “Dumbass.” She lowered her eyes to stare into the light of a lamp that illuminated a painting at a certain angle. “So what’s the story?”

“We have someone mimicking her voice to call in tomorrow. Say she’s quitting her job, due to family issues. We’ll make it look like she’s moving back to Kansas - Chip?”

Nomura flickered her eyes at the bag, and scrunched her nose. “No.”

Strickler shrugged popping one in his mouth loudly.

Nomura rolled her eyes and grumbled. She lowered her head so her hair curtained her eyes, and presented her hand. “Fine. Yes, maybe, like, three - or something.”

Strickler shifted some chips into her palm. A few goblins eyed the crumbs that fell to the floor hungrily.

“Her things will need to be vacated from her apartment.”

“So?” Nomura ate the chips, feeling hungrier than anticipated.

“I thought you’d like to be the one to collect her things. Or at least scope the room out first.”

Nomura snapped her head at him, her mouth tightly pursed. Her eyes glowed for a moment, but her only acted on reaction was to punch the vending machine again, and look away.

A silent pause followed, and Nomura held out her hand again for more chips. Strickler passed her the whole bag this time. 

In a later conversation, Nomura would only end up mentioning, “Groe would have been happy she left her room tidy.”

And that, was that.

“And spit!” said Dr. Muelas, interrupting the changeling’s thoughts.

Strickler didn’t realize how much time had passed. His mouth aching and sore from being kept open so long. He groaned and massaged his face, hoping Barbara wasn’t feeling the discomfort as well. She must have taken something as the pain in his shoulders dulled.

All the changeling could think about, was popping some tylenol and getting some rest. He contemplated apple sauce, or perhaps a soup for dinner so he wouldn’t have to even think about chewing.

He was deciding on a soup flavor when, Strickler saw it - or rather its absence.

Strickler stared dumbfoundedly at his bare hand, unsure how to process what he was looking at. How it could have possibly have happened.

Strickler gasped, pulling his hand away from his mouth “The ring! What?” desperately he searched around the car, and checked his pockets. For safety he checked his rearview mirror.

It was like a sight from a horror movie.

Angor stalking down the sidewalk, at a distance. It sent shivers down the changeling’s spine. He hoped it wasn’t true, adjusting the mirror.

Strickler turned to look behind him, and sure enough, Angor was still there, still coming towards him.

“Oh, _no_!”

Angor with white pale eyes started to charge. The changeling thought quick, and thought best to _be_ the collision.

Rapidly Strickler changed gears and hit his foot against the gas, going into reverse in a jolt, and hitting Angor in the process. The collision made his head and teeth ache.

For whatever reason, the changeling decided to roll the window and check behind him. When in truth, Strickler should have been mindful of below.

Angor’s blade plunged up from below the car, a little too close for the comfort of his gronk-nuks.

Strickler, switched gears and punched the gas. The back of his car fish tailing ever so slightly as his wheels skidded against the pavement.

“Quick, quick, think” he told himself, trying to focus on his next move instead of why this felt like _such_ a déjà vu. Strickler’s heart raced like dancing piano keys, like the quick time of cymbals.

_O, Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?_

In one ear Strickler felt as if he heard the sound of waves, in the other the ringing of a tuning fork.

Strickler shook his head and focused on the road. Suddenly the car quivered and fishtailed again as Angor managed to catch up and jump on. A shocked scream emitting from the changeling.

Strickler swerved this way and that to try and throw the troll off, while also dodging the plunges of Angor’s dagger stabbing through the car roof.

The changeling took to the curving roads, took (quite literally) to the hills.

For a brief moment Strickler thought he had managed to shake Angor off. It was quiet. But the changeling was smart enough to not let his guard down.

Thankfully so, for no amount of stomached steel could have prepared Strickler to the sight of seeing Angor crawl up from below his car and over the hood to his windshield.

Strickler yelled, and swerved, tires screeching along the way, occasionally marking the pavement. It was a miracle there wasn’t the police around.

The more Strickler drove up hill, the closer he was to getting to the part of the road that turned the curve into a cliff drop.

“You can’t escape me now.” called Angor through his window, drunk on his own blind rage and freedom. He reached his pale gnarled hand through the window, and grabbed Strickler’s arm.

The car lurched in response. Stickler, even through screams, kept his eyes on the road.

“After I’m through with you,” Angor nearly, _nearly_ , laughed, watching Strickler struggle to lean away from his grip. Fighting to keep control of at least the car. “I’ll kill the Trollhunter, and everyone else!”

“Are you mad?!”

“No!” said Angor, believing his actions to be that of a sane person. A person who could do anything with their time and life. And he wanted to kill, thus, that made Angor Rot, “I’m _free_!”

Strickler was careless to have his eyes off the road for so long. _Especially_ with these roads, _especially_ at these speeds. Again, the changeling shouted at what was before him.

Strickler was faced with the choice to either swerve, or make a break for it. The changeling only hoped his yelling was enough of a distraction to have Angor look away long enough to unbuckle his seatbelt and tuck and roll out of the car.

 _Shigir’s horns, please let Barbara’s pain killers be strong_ , Strickler thought as he groaned at the pain riding his back. Behind him he heard the car, and Angor with it, go over the edge of the road.

He groaned again and scrambled to his feet. Feeling no time to loose. Strickler looked over the edge, if only to make sure the crashing car didn’t go up in flames. California didn’t need another fire.

Satisfied, the changeling started running down hill, down the road. Putting as much distance between him and the edge as possible, before changing forms and taking flight.

 

          Janus Order

 

‘If Bular was still alive, this wouldn’t be possible.’

A phrase that was getting more and more popular in the Janus Order.

Since Lord Stricklander’s speech, since his proposal to the Council. The Janus Order was severely divided in opinion. Fractured, torn between what they have been doing, told to do, forced to do (sometimes even by the very Lord Stricklander himself), and this new opportunity before the Order.

It was so simple.

“Let him rot.”

Paraphrased of course.

Yet with each passing day since Stricklander’s speech, it was something that felt a little more tangible. A reality, that felt possible.

In someways it added more life to the dauntingly bone white halls. Already marked with potential colors for repainting.

The hallways weren’t as hushed and muted. Idle chatter sometimes floating away from coffee stations and water coolers.

Idle pointless (almost fun) chatter like;

“So, have you ever thought of a stripper name?”

“Titty titty bang bang was one I was thinking of.”

“Oh! Nice.”

“Avery Areola, for _sure_.” said another in the gathered group. They all agreed alliteration made all names, including stripper names (“Especially stripper names”) better.

It wasn’t as though these sorts of conversations didn't happen before. It was the fact that idle chatter was so freely discussed in the open. For everyone to hear.No one thought of the potential repercussions of someone using idle information against them.

But yet, there was no longer a reason to be on edge and at each other’s throats.

Otto saw it as disastrous, as things getting worse, as more and more half-breeds loosing their way. Loosing the voice of the Pale Lady, and their duty to her glory.

Which is why when he could, Otto would count heads. Silently keeping tabs, and names.

While other indulged. Indulged in a freedom Gunmar once promised, yet never seemed entirely convincing that he’d follow through on. But now, like the folk hero, they can take it themselves by the crook.

It could be them, and the seeking of the Pale Lady.

It was for these reasons why Karenna and Zurougia, were playing out a long talked about fantasy. Both giddy with the already spreading rumor that the Council has come to a decision. The rumor being, that Lord Stricklander would stay in charge.

That fantasy being; the taking of each other while at work.

The room was dark, an unused holding cell that needed reworking. A cell that had secretly become rather popular to other paired changelings over the weeks.

They were in their human forms, as things tended to get a little too loud in troll form. Walls could topple, and Zurougia and Karenna didn’t want that. Not to this holding cell.

Aside from the occasional passion fueled lamplight flicker of their eyes. The cell was pitch black.

But this was no matter to the changeling lovers. 

 

          Outside Deena’s Flower Shop

 

Deena was in the process of locking up for the day. Humming to herself as she tossed a scarf over her shoulder. Even if it was spring, it still got cold at night.

With her headphones already in her ears, she didn’t hear the small crash of someone hitting the tree behind her.

Deena turned and gasped, dropping her latte in the process.

“Holy shit! Are you okay?” said Deena pulling the earphones out.

Strickler was mildly tangled in the California olive tree, looking as though he dropped out of the sky.

“Phone.” he gasped. He shook his head and looked sadly at some of the broken branches. Catching his breath more Strickler said, “What a pity. I’m sorry. May I, use your phone?”

It wasn’t the question she was anticipating. Deena blinked, unsure if she should be worried. “I ah, it’s at a low battery, but…” Deena fished for it in her purse. Trying to use the headphones as a safety line to pull it towards her.

Stickler didn’t mean the cellphone, but a landline. He didn’t want her recalling any of the number he might dial. “Is there a phone inside?” he asked straightening himself, and slightly wobbling in the process.

“Yeah there is but I have mine- I don’t mind you using it-” she looked up to see Strickler wobbling again. “You sure you’re good?”

It was Deena’s words that inspired the changeling.

Strickler reached for his left arm and groaned, doubling over. “I can’t feel my arm. I - haaah, my chest _hurts_.”

“Shit! Ohmygod. Shit!” Deena panicked, helping Strickler to put his arm over her. “I’ll get you inside. Okay? Hang in there.”

“My _heart_.” the changeling faked, contorting his voice to put a more elderly twinge to it.

“It’s going to be okay.” Deena said, fumbling with the keys, scratching the lock in the process. The bell on the door chimed and the strong wafting smell of flowers filled Strickler’s nostrils. “I’m going to set you down right there okay. I’m calling 9-1-1.”

Strickler allowed himself to be placed on a whicker chair next to a struggling hydrangea. “Thank you~” he said, playing up a weakly rasp.

The changeling peaked out of the corner of his eye to make sure Deena was at enough distance away before bounding for the phone behind the desk.

 

          The Janus Order

 

“We’ve reached a decision, Grand Commandant.”

“Ja? And what might that be?” asked Otto, pleasantly.

For overa week now Otto had yet to pester the council with allegations and reasons why Stricklander shouldn’t be leader.

Half of the Council found this relieving, to have a thorn out of their side, the other half found this all the more disconcerting.

Especially Enoch.

Though with his slow drawl and deadpan face, it put people trolls and changelings alike at ease that Enoch couldn’t or wouldn’t catch on.

This was one of those moments.

Enoch stared closely while stating, “We will revile that, this evening. We wish for you to escort Lord Stricklander back to the Janus Order, where our decision will be made public to all.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed. Studying Enoch, and his marvelous poker face.

Enoch gave nothing away, Otto gave nothing away.

However, it was Zaraba and her petty upturned smirk that told Otto _everything_.

Lord Stricklander wa to stay in command.

Otto giggled with nerves. He stood up and pushed his chair in. “Wunderbar.” the polymorph clicked his heels and bowed stiffly. “I shall fetch him immediately.”

“ _Thank you_ Herr Scaarbach.” smiled Zaraba sweetly. If the petty smile earlier wasn’t a clue enough, this was but the nail on the door.

Enoch only nodded a thanks, and the Council members left.

The polymorph watched with icy eyes. The mild smile souring like spoiling milk.

This was not wunderbar. There was nothing wunderbar about this.

This could throw a wrench in all his planning with Krax. Heck the Krubera were already in Trollmarket! There’s no turning back now. No stopping this.

He couldn’t phone up Krax and tell him to tell Queen Usrna _plans have changed, never mind. Thanks anyways_.

For a wild moment Otto had doubt.

Doubt in what he had planned. Otto whole heartedly, in that moment, contemplated Stricklander’s ideal; a life without Gumm-Gumms or Gunmar. It still sounded too good to be true.

And with Usurna on the sam continent, out of her blasted caves; this idea of Stricklander’s was now impossible to accomplish.

If Stricklander stayed in power, and still chose this childish fantasy, it would mean more backtracking. Turning away from their allies on Gunmar’s infernal campaign, _their_ campaign, for the Eternal Night.

If.

IF Stricklander stayed in power.

Otto’s palms grew sweaty as he placed his jacket and hat back on. Mouth turning slightly dry with the thought.

 _If_.

On his way out of the Janus Order, to head towards the underground parking garage, Otto stopped in front of the phonograph room. Her room.

The polymorph paused. He wondered if this was a big enough reason to seek - to ask guidance - to, to consult, the Pale Lady.

Otto continued to stare at the door. Every molecule was on edge and the polymorph wasn’t even in the room.

Surely the Pale Lady would be against the Council’s choice, surely the Pale Lady would frown at Stricklander’s actions, his plans.

One word from the phonograph and Stricklander could be silenced forever. (arguably, so could Otto if the Pale Lady wanted Stricklander’s deeds done).

 _Surely_ the Pale Lady would give some sort of _sign_.

Otto’s hand reached for the door knob.

Just before his fingers clasped on the cold knob…the polymorph’s phone started to ring.

Otto gasped, fumbled to retrieve his phone, and gasped again.

Stricklander was calling him.

“Le Fay on the wind!”

 _This_ , was _surely_ , a sign. Otto became more and more convinced with such the more Stricklander rambled for help.

The polymorph kissed the door, and started to speed walk to his car. A faint distant ringing in Otto’s ears.

He turned halfway down the hallway to blow a kiss to the door, to the phonograph, to the Pale Lady, as he went. Otto’s joyous actions picked up the attention of a Fragwa, who quirked his head, picked their nose with their tongue, and scurried after Otto with a “Waka, wakka!”

Unbeknownst to the world, the phonograph handle moved.

Now it was it was time to interpret _what_ the sign meant.

Otto’s thoughts raced with his car.

Obviously he couldn’t tell Stricklander the Council’s choice.

Obviously he couldn’t help or lend a hand to Stricklander and his attempt to flee from Angor Rot.

Clearly Stricklander has to be stopped for the continued survival of the Order, for the release of Gunmar - and with it, the glory of their Eldritch Queen.

Stricklander had gone too far, it was only a matter of time before he’d have to face the Green Knight. If the knight wasn’t already messing with his senses.

Poisoned beyond saving from his own ambitious pursuits.

Otto’s plan played itself before him as clearly as the road he was driving on.

He’ll lie.

He’ll tell Stricklander that the Order has cast him out, that this (Angor Rot) was the last straw. Being such a fan of letting other get out of their own messes, Stricklander was sure to appreciate it.

“ _Yet didn’t he come to rescue you in prison?_ ” An annoying voice in the back of Otto’s head, the part that had known Stricklander for centuries, asked. 

“He owed me.” Otto said aloud. Ignoring Fragwa as he placed his green feet on the dashboard.

“Don’t you owe him? Is he not your friend?”

The polymorph’s eyes flashed, chest rumbling with a growl.

 _He will be dead to the Order, and if Stricklander is to survive Angor Rot (which wasn’t likely), then he can stay in his wretched human world. Live it out and when Gunmar_ _does_ _return,_ _die_ _like them._ Were the thoughts Otto told himself, rather convincingly. His grip on the steering wheel lessened slightly as his chest continued to tighten. Perhaps…he’ll even get that sail boat he’d mentioned.

Otto frowned, and tried not to think about all the shenanigans he and Stricklander had been through over the centuries. Otto wasn’t doing a very good job.

 _Yes…this, in a way, is a win, win._ Otto thought, feeling more convinced in his thought process. _This way the Janus Order’s primary task is preserved, and Stricklander either meets the Green Knight by the hands of Angor Rot, or is…free to start life a new. Left to fend for himself without the resources of the Janus Order_.

 

          Arcadia Steets

 

Strickler left behind a rather perplexed and worried Deena. Who stared down helplessly into a note that Strickler left.

‘ _All is well, got better! Sorry for the scare_.’ and then in far more rushed handwriting, as if Strickler couldn’t in good conscience leave out tacking on a‘ _Do get home safe - Ta!_ ’ at the end. There was also an IOU to help with the perplexed ambulance that was bound to arrive.

“That smarmy old man!” proclaimed Deena, showing a loss of composure. All she wanted was to go home, watch a Drag race, and eat.

Said smarmy old man slunk around and stuck to the alleyways. Continuously looking over his shoulder. Taking his time.

Strickler turned onto the mentioned meet up, and was overjoyed to see Otto’s car. So much so he nearly ran into it. Luckily swerved in time with a curse.

“Oh, thank heavens. You made it!” Strickler said rushing for the passenger door.

Impatient to get in, Strickler started to open the door before Otto would unlock it. “Let me in. We don’t have much time.” Otto and

Fragwa shared a look. Looking at the pathetic state of Stricklander the polymorph could scarcely believe it was this very changeling that dragged Otto along on so many, many, shenanigans. 

“Angor won’t stop until he finds us.” the door remained locked.

It was only for the sake of not shouting through a window that Otto lowered it. He smiled pleasantly in the face of Stricklander’s distress. And reminded himself that this, was for the good of the Janus Order. “Och. You are mistaken, mein freund. He won’t stop until he finds _you_.”

Strickler’s eyes flared, this wasn’t the time for snippy wordplay. “I demand you open the door!” his voice cracking ever so slightly with nerves at the end.

Otto, taking his time, leaned his arm back. Fragwa mirrored Otto’s movements cruelly, already smelling a change of power. “You no longer make demands.” Strickler shook his head not believing what he had just heard. To clarify, Otto continued, almost enjoying himself, “The Janus Order has _discussed matters_.”

It was like ice cubes were being dropped painfully one by one into Strickler’s stomach. As if a part of himself was floating away. Strickler still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The word coming out of Otto’s very own mouth.

Yet Otto continued, stoking his frustration and finding catharsis in saying aloud, “While we seek the return of Gunmar, you seek only you _own_ glory.”

How could Otto still not have grasped Strickler’s intentions was beyond the changeling. He clasped onto the door; saying in ernest. “I seek glory for _all_ changelings!”

Otto sighed, not able to look Strickler directly in the eye, and explained (like how a mechanic explains a flat tire has no air in it), “That’s not what the Council thinks.”

“Wh-what?”

The polymorph clicked his tongue, and scratched his chin. “They even went so far as to consult Her Phonograph.”

“But -“ something about that nagged at Strickler, but he was too panicked, and nearly heartbroken to understand why. It was as though Strickler’s foundation was being pulled up from under him.

The changeling couldn’t understand how this was possible. All those years, all those sacrifices, the very bloody toll it took to found and start the Janus Order to behind with!

Strickler felt as powerless as an abandoned skier facing an avalanche.

“You are forsaken mein freund.” Otto said matter of factly. With the same satisfaction as saying ‘you’re fucked’ to a person who’s had it coming for a very long time.

To add salt to the wound Fragwa had the social graces to blow a raspberry in Strickler’s face.

The disgusting spray of saliva was enough to draw Strickler from his vice grip and preemptive Welling. Wiping the spit off with his sleeve.

“Angor Rot will kill me!” Strickler exclaimed hoping to reach out to whatever semblance of friendship he and Otto had shared over the centuries. “You _know_ that!”

Otto considered offering a farewell cigarette. But decided against it when he considered the possibility of Stricklander, in an act of desperation, would attempt to break his arm in the process and forcefully commandeer Otto’s car.

Thus the polymorph could only force himself to underline the severity of the situation with a waved hand, and calm voice. “Then I will send flowers.”

“Otto!” cried Strickler over Fragwa’s cackle. The polymorph drove off leaving Strickler beside himself. The changeling, in this moment of worldly collapse, stood still in the road. Looking like he was part of a line up for a firing squad.

Otto tried very hard not to look at Stricklander through his rearview mirror. He didn’t feel as pleased as he thought he would feel. Failing to not look at Stricklander, he spotted the changeling staggering to lean against a white truck.

“There goes my best friend, whom I left to die.” Otto said distantly. *

There was no turning back.

Strickler’s world was crumbling as he knew it. Lifting himself from his leaning position against the truck.

In a ghastly way, he could almost hear the cement and pavement laugh maliciously when Strickler jumped at his own shadow (caused by a streetlight flickering).

Strickler could hardly bring himself to repeat the word out loud. His voice a miserable croaking sound in the quiet open. “ _Forsaken_?” The changeling looked at his hands, and looked up into the night sky. Asking the heavens, with all his cruel deeds riding and crawling up Strickler’s back like fire ants, “After everything I’ve done?”

He didn’t even consider the option Otto might have been lying. One doesn’t lie about what the Pale Lady says. It never ends well. Otto would have known that.

Pathetically, and feeling like a piece of swept aside trash, Strickler tried to walk down the alley. His legs robotically trying to carry him to the hidden Janus Order.

The changeling managed five steps before collapsing on his knees. His head hanging limply with a small sniff.

“Now what?” was a horrible, nasty question to ask, but Strickler did asked it all the same. Feeling smaller than ever.

Just what was he without the Janus Order? Without the Pale Lady? Aside from some mutated troll creature.

Resigned to the death that had long since been waiting for him. Waltolomew Stricklander stayed put. Head lowered as if waiting to place it on a chopping block. This was it. The changeling almost felt relieved, himself and his body were so tired. It had been such a long, long march to get where he was.

Stricklander closed his eyes.

There were no more tricks to play.

 

_He was in a field, he could hear the grandmother’s voice over the saucer of animal blood she was spilling in the olive groove as an offering._

_“The Gods are fickle and petty my neftś. They bicker and argue, and get jealous - just like all of us down here.” the grandmother rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, staining her sun wrinkled face in the process. “And when_ _they_ _fight, they pick_ _our_ _sides for us.”_

_“That’s not fair.” the young changeling said, looking at his scabbed knees._

_“They’re Gods, they don’t need to be fair - they don’t_ _need_ _to be anything.”_

_The changeling considered this for a very long time. Enough to watch an ant crawl over his toe. He considered squashing it._

_Instead the changeling asked. “And to go up against a God?”_

_“You’d need the backing of other Gods.”_

_The changeling rested his head sideways on his knee. He spotted a decomposing rabbit not too far away. Its carcass covered in swarming ants._

_“And if you don’t -”_

_The grandmother snapped her head around, her wiry curly hair backlit by the sun. “No matter your feelings about the Gods, Vel, what’s important is to know -“ she pointed her animal blood stained finger at him, “that when the Gods are having a fight, you hold on tight to what you can.”_

 

Strickler’s head jolted up in a gasp, as if breaching a green haze that muddled his senses. This wasn’t the time to feel sorry for himself. To feel self destructive enough to wait for the Green Knig- Angor Rot.

Not with Barbara still bound to him!

He ran his palm over his eye and rubbed his eyebrow. The changeling pulled himself up, and started to crouch. Yet, Strickler halted himself from changing forms.

Going to check on Barbara wasn’t going to help her. It wasn’t going to prevent Angor Rot from getting either of them either. In fact Angor, (in that crazed state) probably thinks Barbara is the first place Strickler would go. Angor, also wanted to kill him first.

Strickler needed to be cleverer than that.

And really, the changeling had only so many options.

With no where else to turn, Strickler could think of only one person who would be hard pressed to consider helping him.

The changeling patted his inner pocket, double checking that he still had not only Giselle’s pouch, but the eye of Gunmar as well.

Never before was he so happy to trust his superstitious gut.

 

          The Janus Order, Again

 

The changelings in the Janus Order were all gathered together. All of them curious in the crowd, moderately talking and some taking bets to see what this meant for the Order.

“Clearly, Stricklander will continue to lead.” said one.

“You would say that. No honor.”

“And here I thought there was no such thing.” said a third, making sure to camp up their laugh.

A wispy changeling in their troll form stepped out from her place by the rest of the Council.

“The Grand Commandant will be here shortly. He’s sent word that he also, brings news from _Her_.”

This silenced the crowd quicker than pressing a mute button.

They waited in nervous silence. Restless in anticipation and curiosity.

Down the bone white hall they heard the footsteps of Otto, and Johnson.

And no Stricklander.

The Council shared looks, but said nothing.

Everyone stared, their eyes glowing and inhumanly still.

Johnson brought forth a step-stool for Otto to raise himself abovethe gathered crowd. Silently Otto removed his coat, and handed it to the outstretched arms of Johnson.

The polymorph stepped forth. Looking down into the wide perplexed and suspicious eyes of the gathered.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice.” he said. Pausing, as if hoping some unseen force would lend him strength to keep talking.

“What is it Mr. Scaarbach?”

“Yes Herr Scaarbach - what is the meaning of this? Where is Stricklander?”

Enoch, who was one of the tallest in the crowd, crossed his arms. His eyes following Johnson as he turned and slunk down an adjoining hallway. Enoch’s eyes squinted.

“It is with great heaviness, and even greater misfortune to announce,” Otto solemnly removed his hat. “That our Lord Stricklander, has played his last trick.”

Gasps filled the air. They looked like a murder of crows, going and quirking their heads every which way. Hands clapped over mouths.

Some didn’t bat an eye while others, like Karenna and Zurougia who were holding onto each other’s hands as discreetly as possible, were flabbergasted.

Zurougia’s knuckles turning white with the force they squeezed Karenna’s hand.

Otto raised his hand for silence, bringing his hat close to his chest. “This…shocks me too. Despite our occasional differences. I held great sympathy and compassion for our late Half-Breed leader.”

After all it wasn’t as though Otto didn’t love Stricklander, but he loved the Janus Order more (And isn’t Otto an honest half-breed?).

“How did it happen?” asked one changeling in the crowd.

“What proof do you have?” chimed in another, “Where is the dust? Why aren’t you covered in it?”

“Isn’t this almost _too_ convenient?”

“We’ve _all_ been part of _some_ sort of coup of some sort Herr Scaarbach.”

Otto raised his hand once more. “Your grievances are valid, and justified. For we are, as Half-breeds, quite the walking conspiracy. Which is why, I brought this.” the polymorph gestured to Johnson who now pushed forward a cart while wearing gloves.

Everyone in the room felt it before they saw it.

It was the Pale Lady’s phonograph.

The room became quieter than a mausoleum.

“I watched Angor Rot strike Stricklander down with my own eyes.” Otto closed his eyes and turn his head away, demonstrating that not even he - The Commandant, was able to bare the remembered images. “It took all of my wits and tricks to make it back safely, unfollowed. And the first thing I did upon returning, was consult our Eldritch Queen.”

It was now that Otto’s palms began to sweat. Now, that he gripped his hat. Some might call it emotion, others nerves.

Internally the polymorph did a dangerous and terrible thing, he wished and prayed to the Pale Lady for his plans to work. And as it’s been mentioned, it’s always a coin flip when it comes to the attentions of the Pale Lady.

“I brought the phonograph - so others might confirm what I believe, and what has been said.” Otto swallowed, and stood to his full height, “That I shall gravely step forward into the place Lord Stricklander left vacant.”

With the prescience of the phonograph in the same room as all the other changelings, no one said a word.

Karenna squeezed Zurougia’s hand all the more.

“Enoch. Zurougia.” called Otto, trying to smile as he gestured to the phonograph. “Will you both step forward and listen - confirming this?”

Enoch uncrossed his arms. Zurougia gave a final squeeze to Karenna’s hand, they felt strengthened by it.

The two changelings Enoch and Zurougia were known for their factual attitudes, neither known for overly deceitful intentions. Some might even call either of them too honest. Though with Enoch, it was a mystery how he survived so long, and with Zurougia there was the matter of their muscles. Thus, no one would doubt either of them if they confirmed Otto’s remarks.

“Please. Thank you.” went Otto, clasping tighter on his hat.

Enoch expressionlessly stared at Otto, then Zurougia, then the phonograph. Zurougia internalized their gulp, and turned the phonograph’s handle.

The silence was pregnant with fear. No one dared to move, or breath. Not even lean forward - an unnatural stillness.

Beads of sweat started dripping down their forehead the more Zurougia listened. Even Enoch’s famed stoicism faltered. His face likewise beading. It was like hearing a voice in the very heartbeat of one’s ears.

Together they gazed at one another, confirming the fear in the other’s eyes.

Whatever prayer Otto did, worked.

“It is as our Commandant says.” Zurougia declared.

Enoch kept his arms to his sides, and stared at the smiling Otto.

Whose smile only grew with more and more waves of relief. His hands shaking trying to contain himself.

Faith in their mission restored.

Otto, believed what he had done, was right.

Surely the Pale Lady favored him over Stricklander - the changeling who lost his way.

Surely his role in Her expansive over reaching chess game against their adversary was great. The olde ways will prevail, and with it Gunmar’s return, and with that; the Eldritch Queen of yore.

“Excellent.” went Otto who quickly reminded himself to look more solemn. “I see.”

A nervous current shot like a wave through the gathered Order members. After weeks believing and warming up to Stricklander’s new philosophy. Now what?

They had tasted what their own freedom could be like…did they want to return to before? Was their a choice? Was there ever a choice?

From over the crowd Zurougia and Karenna shared worried looks. As did other changelings with their friends, companions, and lovers.

“We’ll of course give ourselves time to remember our fallen founder, but it is clear his ambitions were too great - too over reaching. For this, I’m sure, the Green Knight must have fogged the brain of Gunmar’s famed aide-de-camp.” Otto placed his hand and hat behind his back. “Starting tomorrow we will continue our march towards Gunmar’s glorious return. We will prepare for our allies, and make direct contact with Queen Usurna.” Otto’s smile stretched like expanding oil. “Of course that’ll mean a few changes must occur.”

 

          The Lake’s House

 

Jim has had a long, rough day. From facing off against Angor Rot in the sewers after, unintentionally, he destroyed his own soul. To playing and _somehow_ surviving Pyrobligst. Though on the more positive side they were able to unlock the power of the Killstone and keep Aargh from being forced to returning with the Krubera.

Although the reveal of Aargh’s Creeper’s sun poisoning was not pleasant.

It was something Jim still thought about even hours later. The sad pained look on Blinky’s face as he caressed Aargh’s injured hand. Jim’s own words still echoing in his mind, “It should have been me who got hurt.”

And when Jim thought of Toby, poor Toby who might have to lose Aargh, yet another person he considered family, after being orphaned. It ached Jim’s heart.

“Get Gunmar…for me.” was another set of words that resonated in the young Trollhunter.

Still, looking over the cul-de-sac to see Toby and Aargh happily talking through their window. Jim smiled.

The teen’s joints ached, and all he wanted was to finish his chores and mindlessly watch GunRobot reruns.

Not even the thought of eating cold pizza affected him. He almost looked forward to it.

That’s when he heard the bushes near his house rustling.

Taking rule 1 to heart, and using fear to be cautious, Jim jumped back. He pulled forth the amulet protectively.

“For the glory of Merlin Daylight is-“

“Please, Trollhunter,” said the changeling stepping out from hiding in the bushes. “you’re my only hope.” Jim still didn’t lower the amulet as he spoke, not even when Strickler took a knee before the teen. “If you want to save your mother’s life,” he clasped Jim’s arm, “you have to _protect_ _me_.”

Jim gawked at the changeling, his ex-history teacher, ex-someone he looked up to, and potentially (if things go horribly wrong) ex-principal.

It was an embarrassingly long silence, until finally, still not completely lowering the amulet, Jim said, “Did you just _New Hope me, to ask for my help???_ ”

“Did I what?”

“New Hope. Star Wars?”

Strickler lowered his hands and sat back on his heels, reconsidering the choice of asking the Trollhunter for help. Jim, underneath all those responsibilities and duties, was still a teenager.

Strickler was asking a teenager for help. It was so easy to forget sometimes, and yet so easy to see when seeing how sleep deprived the teen’s eyes looked.

Perhaps this was a mistake, an unfair mistake - and yet, where else could Strickler go?

Irritably Jim took a step back, “Also, back up - what was that about my mom?”

“Angor Rot, Jim. My ring, the Inferna Copula is gone-“

“oh” the guilty look on Jim’s face was not lost to the changeling.

“-and now since I can no longer control Angor he’s after me. Which by extension, whatever he has plans for will also effect your mother.” Strickler tried to stay calm as he explained. His eyes shifting to look around at skylines and dark corners. Just in case they were being watched.

Jim let out a very long exasperated groan which lasted the duration of re-picking up the trash, putting said trash in the trashcan, and covering the lid. “Man!”

“What, what is it?” Strickler strained in a whispery shouty voice.

Jim placed his hands on his hips looking down at his own shoelaces, “This is my fault. _I_ , stole the ring-“

“Yes, I figured that much.”

“How?”

Strickler gave the teen a patient, _who else would?_ sort of look.

“I mean, you’re not wrong.” and Jim let out another groan, and then a frantic small yell. “My mom! She’s going to be defenseless! I have to-“

“Jim, Angor has no interest in hurting your mother. He wants to kill me, but if he does- succeed, that would - well”

“This is such a mess.”

“Yes, I know.” said the changeling, feeling guilty.

“This is your mess!”

Strickler winced and gestured his hands in a motion of, ‘keep it down’, “Yes, I know that too.”

“ _Do you_?” Jim pressured.

“I’m on my knees Jim. I know this is my fault, but we can only solve one problem at a -“

Jim flung his hands in the air, his long day irritating the poor teen. He just wanted to watch Gunrobot and fall sleep before midnight. “Why did you summon him to begin with, Stickler?!”  
“To kill you.” the changeling said matter of factly.  
“If you’re going to be a snarky-“

“and because…” Strickler, stooping on his knees, wringing his hands forced himself to admit out loud. “I couldn’t do it myself.”

Jim stepped back suspiciously.

“We should go inside.” Strickler cautioned. “He could be already waiting.”

“Yeah, I think I’m good out here.” Jim crossed his arms, “You were saying?” the teen rolled his hands in to motion Strickler to continue.

“I, I was terrified to fight you - you killed Bular for goodness sake. And fearing my luck might run out, I sought Angor Rot. Did he have a better chance at besting the slayer of Bular? Perhaps.” The changeling looked at the Trollhunter with something similar to admiration. “Well…there was the high possibility you and Angor would play out a long game of cat and mouse - a game -“

“Aargh.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It was Aargh who landed the last blow against Bular. That wasn’t me.” said Jim lowering the amulet. His hands at his sides.

“You did most of the work, Jim. It’s still a terrifying feat for a child. An unfair one at that. I shouldn’t even be here asking your help, adding more weight to you shoulders, but here I am. And -” Strickler’s head lowered rather sadly. Finally admitting. “I just couldn’t bring myself to kill you. You’re, my star pupil. You’re only a child.”

“16.” Jim snapped at the creature who was way over a hundred years old. Unable to take whatever kindly routine that was being played out. Keeping to his suspicions. Especially with the bitter reminder of their previous mentor student relationship.

“A _child_.” retorted Strickler in a testy tone. “Unless you want forced adulthood on your age again - teenagers is a relatively new concept in human history since the crack down of child la-“

“I think the forced adulthood tally has been tacked a _while_ back, dude.”

“See! Too much, you were already doing too much-"

“Was not!” Jim defended.

“How far you humans have come to resolve sending your children into battle and this, this” Strickler eyed the amulet with venom in his eyes, a low glow almost prickling, “this _amulet_ sends you into battle as if it were the 100 Years War. Except, hang on, it isn’t a 100 years. You can times that by as many 100s as you like. You should be cycling, hanging with friends, and watching Gun Robot.”

“This is _not_ a way to ask someone for help.” Jim warned, not at all appreciating how close to home his ex-teacher’s words were.

But Strickler barreled through anyways, filled with the venom of being a veteran child soldier. “Yet here you are fighting as if Agincourt itself is yawning before you. Joan of Arc was _three_ , _three_ years older than you when she burned at the stake. It _isn’t_ fair Jim. I _know_ it isn’t. I’ve seen it for _years_ how it isn’t fair. And it isn’t fair that I’m asking for your help on top of everything else.”

Perhaps under different circumstances Jim would have been moved by the changeling’s understanding.

But all it did was irritate Jim all the more.

There was a time he would have wanted nothing more than to have heard Strickler’s thoughts.

As kind and caring as Blinky was, as understanding an inspiring as he was - there was a bit of intellectual romanticism that hung in Blinky’s words. Which, granted, helped.

It helped many, many times.

But other times - well…

There was also the former Gumm-Gumm General Aargh who was also helpful. Present in his listening, understanding in his gestures, and in his own way the troll was of equal value to the help Blinky gave (in a more, salt of the earth, sort of way).

“Jim.”

“Just - just _shut up_! Okay?” Jim pushed Strickler away, and tried to push his words away as well. “Just shut up!”

Nothing could change how old he was, nothing could change that this being the Trollhunter was his duty.

“There’s nothing wrong in admitting it Jim.” Strickler said slowly, patiently, “It isn't a fair weight to put on the shoulders of a chi -”

“Call me a child. One. More. Time.” the Trollhunter warned.

The changeling’s head lowered, and he nodded. His voice, a croak. “I’m sorry.”

Jim turned his face away from Strickler, and rubbed his eye. With a multitude of bitter questions cropping up; Why did it have to be this way? Why did it have to be his favorite teacher that turned out to be the enemy? Why couldn’t an apology have happened sooner? Why did it have to take his mom being in danger to-?

Jim continued to rub his eyes, and cleared his throat. Without looking at the changeling Jim pointed to the door. “Just get inside.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (* Based on the acclaimed line Aaron Burr would say, whenever anyone would come up to him at a bar, and ask him about his duel with Alexander Hamilton, “Alexander Hamilton, my best friend, who I killed.” ) 
> 
> Whew! hope it was a good chapter! Can you imagine ch9 and ch10 were originally planned to be one big chapter? Kinda happy that didn't end up being the case lol  
> A big thanks to everyone for all your support! <3 I hope you know I really appreciate it!
> 
> We're so close to the end of Act I !!!

**Author's Note:**

> As I try to regain my writing muscles please always feel free to approach me if in trying something I cross any kind of line! :]  
> And thank you so much for reading this far!
> 
>  
> 
> I've made a Terpsichore playlist for those who would like to listen to the music titled in each chapter section, as well as some mentioned within the chapters. They are pieces selected that evoke a theme, or feeling, or inspiration, or even introduce a leitmotif (example: Giselle and the piece 'Apparition de l'Oiseau de feu' connecting Giselle as a sort of Firebird), it tends to vary but it is not law. Think of it like very broad brush strokes for the words to dance to.  
> Story-wise it is NOT essential to listen to, just a fun little add on. ;)  
> After all whats a dance without some music? Enjoy! https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLqvaWUKCMWx29ffZ3BEF2-KHnDg058-qf


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